


unmade

by ndnickerson



Category: Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Covert Operation, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Goodbyes, Memory Loss, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Spies & Secret Agents, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 78,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3367316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned Nickerson set out to help people. Two years after their last meeting, a mysterious woman re-entered his life, although she had never left his thoughts for long. He was in no way prepared for what happened next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ned hadn't meant to fall asleep on the couch. He woke feeling stiff and even more drained. On the other side of the dark, shaded window, gusts of wind lashed raindrops against the pane in staccato bursts, and at first he thought that was what had disturbed him. It was the kind of weather that made him want to huddle under a comforter and stay in his apartment all day. He shivered, slowly dragging himself to a sitting position. The television screen cast flickering blue-toned shadows over the coffee table.

That was when he realized it, and in an instant he felt almost fully awake. When he had fallen asleep, the overhead light would have been on.

His gun was in the bedroom.

His legs were already tensed when he detected the faintest shift in the air. It wasn't anything so overt as a creak or a cleared throat; it was more like an almost imperceptible exhale, or the brush of fingertips against denim. "Good evening."

Ned felt simultaneously wired and paralyzed. He wasn't sure whether he should make a dash for the gun, trusting the intruder's delayed response to give him a chance, and trusting his still-tired body not to collapse. The voice was slightly behind him, and maybe the couch was between them—

"Hello," Ned replied, his voice a little rusty. He coughed.

"I don't have much time," the intruder said, and Ned tilted his head. It was coming back to him. Two years ago, on a rainy night much like this one. He had been filling in for Hank Estigan on an emergency appointment, and the owner of the low, almost sardonic voice had been the client. She had been tense, uncommunicative, borderline confrontational; she had seemed exhausted and suspicious, and she hadn't opened up to him, not really. She had just wanted her prescription, the medication that would help her wind down, and he stood between her and it.

It was only after she had departed, scrip in hand, that he had let himself consider what he felt during those few brief glimpses into her blue eyes, or when he had seen the way she kept the cuffs of her sweatshirt pulled up over the heels of her hands even as she tucked reddish-gold hair behind her ears. Her words had been infinitely weary, her blue eyes shadowed by exhaustion, but he had sensed a vulnerability in her, one that she hadn't dared let him see or touch.

He understood, now. After that night he had spoken to Hank Estigan, and now he was in on the program, the same program she was in. He had seen a handful of other men and women like her, all late teens or early twenties. The training and the occasional prescriptions kept them functioning. Without the medication—well, he knew the stark obfuscation of the clinical terms, but he had never seen them in reality.

She had called herself Andrea, then. Ned knew enough to know that wasn't her name, but that was all. Their lives before were gone.

"Andrea."

She was drawing another breath; she let it out in what he recognized as faint surprise. "So you remember."

He recognized that her steps were approaching his apartment's small kitchen, and while he was still faintly thrumming with adrenaline, he stayed on the couch instead of dashing for his gun. The overhead light snapped into searing brilliance as she swept her hood from her reddish-gold hair, and he swallowed. He wasn't surprised to see the gun leveled straight at his face, but that didn't mean he liked it.

"I'm on a flight at five-fifty," she told him. "Just a few hours, now. I start decompression just before midnight."

Ned's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

She didn't quite smirk, when she saw the recognition in his eyes. "Yeah," she said quietly. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

His stomach twisted into a knot. "I can report you," he said.

"You could," she agreed. "After all, it would be hard for me to be with you every second while you're at Linkhaven. But I'm going to be on that fucking plane. And if you don't help me, I'll break in. Some people will get hurt."

He met her gaze and searched her eyes. If she was bluffing, he couldn't tell. From what he knew of the participants, he knew it wasn't an idle threat.

The closer she came to decompression, the less stable she would be. The black beauties wouldn't stop decompression; they would only stave it off for a while, and make it worse once it did hit. He had never prescribed them, himself. He only knew what they were and how they were used.

"Mission?"

She took a short breath, then nodded. "We don't have much time," she repeated.

_We_ , this time.

Ned dry-washed his face with his palms, then made a split-second decision. If he was lucky, he would be able to explain after. If he wasn't, this would cost him his job, his clearance, all of it. He would be back to civilian life again. His career hung in the balance.

That, and a flickering he could see in her eyes, one he wasn't sure he wasn't imagining. Two years, and he hadn't been able to forget her. One session with her, and he had talked to Hank, allowing himself to be recruited into the program. He had enjoyed all of it. He had been there to support and counsel the young men and women who returned to a world, briefly or permanently, that they had left behind. To Andrea and the rest of them, everything was black and white, binary, simple.

It made decompression terrifying, and Ned had only been through one—as a facilitator and observer only, not the subject.

He stood. "Let me get dressed," he said. "We can talk on the way."

"You won't call anyone." She wasn't asking a question.

"No."

He could have, when he went into his bedroom and changed from his Emerson sweatsuit into a plaid button-down and jeans. He was equally sure that if he had, when the team responded to his call, she would be long-gone—and, just as she had promised, she would be on that plane. If she was heading out on a mission so close to decompression, without proper medical supervision—

Before he went back out, he put on his holster and slotted the gun into it. He came out and she stood in the same place, and she almost looked like she had switched off. The appearance was deceptive, though. Her gun was still up, and it didn't waver.

He held his hands up, palms out, and made a vague gesture at his holster. Her gaze went from it to his face. "You can put it away," he said. "I'll get you what you want."

He drove, of course. She didn't holster her gun, but she did at least rest it in her lap. He turned the radio down until it was just a faint buzz at the edge of his perception.

"No one would have cleared you to go on a mission so close to decompression." His voice was just as calm and matter-of-fact as hers had been, and the presence of her loaded gun in the car was enough to keep his adrenaline up and his exhaustion at bay.

She didn't respond, but she didn't need to. Ned knew he was right.

"So whatever's going on right now is an emergency, or of your own initiative. And if you had to coerce me at gunpoint for medication, it's the latter."

Again, she didn't respond. Again, he kept his tone light, almost conversational.

"So this is off the books, under the table, something you want enough to risk your entire life over. How many days of beauties do you need? How many do you think you could last?"

His tone became harsh at the end of it. Too long on the beauties would damage her, especially if she had used the stopgap before. He didn't know if she had.

She made a quiet noise. "With any luck, it won't be long," she muttered.

He took a long breath. "I'm coming with you."

"No." Her reply was immediate.

He turned and glanced at her face, for only a second. "As _soon_ as your mission's complete, you need to decompress. I don't want you to wait for a flight back to the States for it. You start a clock when you take that first beauty."

"I know." Those short, toneless answers were familiar, from that therapy session years ago. He had learned so little about her. Hank had left a note for Ned, telling him to draw her out as much as he could, while acknowledging that he would likely be wasting his breath. "And it's my choice—"

"Do you have backup?"

Her pause told him the answer before she spoke it. "It's my choice," she said. "My team was captured. I'm going back for them. The next team wasn't available until four days from now. By then—"

He glanced over at her again, his heart sinking. From the way she was talking, he had a very, very bad feeling that she had been off on her calculations, that decompression had already started.

And he didn't know how strong she was.

"All the more reason."

" _Medic._ " Her tone would have been sneering. "I'd spend more time keeping you from getting killed than accomplishing anything."

"I can at least be a scout or cause a diversion," he pointed out. "I'm already in this. They can't fire me twice. And I'm not letting you go alone."

He had been through basic training as part of his clearance, and he kept up to date with his firearms. He had never been active in the field; as an Army psychologist, it had never been part of his job description—and the soldiers who were part of the program were infinitely beyond that. _She_ was infinitely beyond that. And what she said was right; he would probably be more of a hindrance to her than a help in the field—but as soon as she was finished, he intended to make sure that she was somewhere safe, so he could supervise her decompression.

Her voice was tight when she spoke again. "All right," she said.

"And don't even think about ditching me before you leave."

That was exactly what she had been thinking. He was a means to an end, for her; he was a source for the medication she needed, and that was all.

Andrea waited in the car while Ned walked into Linkhaven, waving at Jun, the night receptionist. Jun's dark eyes widened with recognition behind her chunky frames as she saw him. Two clients waited in the lobby, their heads down. One wore a dark sweatshirt with its hood pulled up over the head, just the way Andrea had the first time they had met.

He checked his firearm and swiped his ID, heading into the restricted-access section of Linkhaven, a wing kept under tight security—to prevent something like what he was about to do. If they bothered to check the cameras later, they would see Ned there after hours, but behaving normally.

The case holding the black beauties also held many other pills, and Ned's fingerprints wouldn't be out of place. He did a few mental calculations and decided that he would do better to overestimate—and, if he absolutely needed to, he was pretty sure he could persuade Hank to help. Bruenner had been an asshole since the day he and Ned had been introduced, and Ned didn't trust him at all. Sutter might be a possibility, but he didn't know for sure.

For security, the dispensary kept a few biometric scanner containers. Ned programmed one with his right thumbprint and put all the stolen medication inside. If she had any ideas about ditching him once she had it, at least this would make it harder—although he knew the way they thought, and if she was determined enough, all she _really_ needed was his thumb, not the rest of him.

"Can you let Estigan know I've been called out of town on an emergency?" he told Jun quietly on his way out. "It might work itself out tonight, but just in case. Thanks."

Other doctors could handle his caseload. They might grumble, but they could. Ned just hoped he would be back soon. Or, he had to admit to himself, at all. He would be more than a little dependent on her, and if she was already compromised, they didn't have a chance in hell.

A part of him thought that his car would likely be missing once he walked out again. Rain whipped against his jacket and hood, obscuring his view, but he was able to make out the shape of his car, and her silhouette still in the passenger seat.

She was just returning her cell phone to her pocket as he slid into the car and hastily slammed the door. "Ready?"

"Yeah. Mind if we swing through a drive-thru? You're making me wonder when we'll have a chance to eat again."

"Make it quick, Nickerson."

She didn't seem inclined to make any additional conversation, and he scanned dark restaurant signs in the rain, trying to find something open all night. Even if Meade wasn't their departure point, he thought it would likely be nearby.

Two years. He hadn't so much as sensed her presence since then. Had she decided on him because he seemed like a pushover? Was his just the first address she could find? Or had she sensed some attraction in him or to him, something he definitely hadn't intended at the time.

He glanced over at her. She wasn't catatonic, but she seemed to be resting, holding onto her strength for what was to come. Soldiers like her were deployed all over the world, and the timing of the flight made him wonder if they were about to be dropped into a war zone.

He had only made three solo jumps during his training.

Breakfast wasn't being served yet, so he settled for a few chicken wraps, handing her one. She considered it for a moment before she devoured it; the next time he glanced over at her, she was crumpling the wrapper.

"Thanks."

"Welcome." Ned swallowed his next bite before asking, "I'm guessing I don't need my passport for this flight?"

"No."

At least he had thought of tossing some anti-nausea medication into the cocktail in the case. "So where to, Andrea?"

She pulled out her phone. Her gun was in its holster. For now, anyway.

\--

He had never seen anyone _close_. He understood it, inasmuch as he could—but it was different, to pull out the black beauty and hand it to her, making sure it was secure in his grip until it rested in her palm. The land beneath them was obscured by icy, teased-thin clouds, and he had no idea where they were now. The turbulence, as he had imagined it might, was upsetting his usually unflappable constitution.

The treatment was indeed a dull black capsule, about as large as an old-fashioned jelly bean. She swallowed it dry, closing her eyes, and Ned pressed his lips together.

He knew exactly how many doses he was comfortable with giving her. He also knew she might insist on more—and that their lives might depend on his slicing the margin too thin to leave her without permanent damage.

"Same time tomorrow. You know that."

The roar of the engines and the wind made it almost impossible to hear anything else. She had been gazing at his lips, and she nodded.

"Have you done this before?"

She shook her head, and then she looked into his eyes. It was nothing that he could have explained or quantified, and he had spent his entire professional career trying to translate emotions and subtle cues into specific, clinical phrases. When he looked into her eyes, he understood something she would never have said, something she had no intention of saying. She had been so easily persuaded to let him accompany her because she realized how little chance she had at succeeding, and she would take advantage of anything that would help. Even if it had meant flying back to the States to track him down, because that would give her more time.

He hoped it would be over in four days. He hoped it would be over in twenty-four hours, really. With every black beauty she took, the worse the aftermath would be.

And _he_ had been a fool to think a job would still be waiting for him on his return. _Luck_ actually meant that enough of his body would be returned for his parents to have something to bury.

And for what—his country? From the time he had discovered how much his friends depended on his advice and counseling, he had known that was how he wanted to help people. Becoming involved in this project, at first, had felt like a coincidence. He wouldn't have even known if Hank hadn't been out of place that night, if Andrea's heavily-redacted file hadn't been placed in his hands, if he hadn't been so intrigued by her that he hadn't been able to put her out of his mind. He had told countless people how to help themselves and work on their problems, only to see them return week after week, month after month, still mired in the same toxic relationships and plagued by the same doubts. He'd been devoted to them, though, so much that his girlfriends had tired of his willingness to take calls from clients at any hour of the night, to give them the sympathetic ear and comforting voice they needed to make it through.

It was a lonely life, but he had made his peace with it, or so he had thought.

As part of the program, he was able to help ease the transition between the field and civilian life, to pardon sins and provide coping techniques. Thanks to the treatment, for many of them, their time in the field became a fading blur they were all too glad to leave behind. Sometimes there were failures—Hank had been there, to help Ned deal with those—but what he was doing was tangible, and gave Ned such a sense of accomplishment. Maybe it didn't give him that same long-term relationship with his clients, but he still maintained a few civilian regulars just to keep himself grounded. The program likely wouldn't last forever, and he would probably need to transition back to a private practice or a state facility in a few years, if he burned out. He just couldn't imagine it anymore. He loved this too much.

It was only now, seeing her again, that Ned wondered. Hank could have engineered it. Maybe the more accurate word was _would_ or _had_. Maybe nothing could have been a better lure into the program than the enigma seated across from him now.

He'd bet his life that she'd had no idea of the manipulation. He could remember her so clearly: poised at one end of the plush client's couch like she was ready to run at the least provocation, the way her keen blue-eyed gaze had swept the room as soon as she had walked in, her clear intelligence and frustration at having to deal with someone who hadn't even been read-in on the project. She had worn new clothes, and he knew now that she had been just back from the field, and likely close to her decompression. She had been agitated, unable to wind down or sleep, and only the prescription he could provide would help. To test him, then, she had rattled off a rapid stream of fluid Latin, a code phrase a civilian wouldn't recognize as anything other than a foreign language.

He knew it now. He recognized what had read as extremely introverted, almost dangerously anti-social behavior during that interview, as a result of her training and the program. Those in the program were molded into the perfect soldiers, and all that didn't help them fell away; sometimes, after, they were never able to regain it. It was a risk they all took. Sometimes they never were able to feel again, but they were all consummate chameleons. They could fake anything they needed to.

He tried to sleep—the program soldiers could survive on very little sleep, although sometimes that could backfire, as it had with her—but he didn't manage much. During this trip they likely wouldn't be staying in a hotel or anything nearly as permanent or secure. He hadn't been able to pack any spare clothes. Once she was coming down, they would have a little time to find somewhere safe, and then he would need to be with her for all of it. All the vulnerability, all the fear, everything the training and medication had suppressed, would come back and leave her decimated. She would need someone to trust, to see her through it.

On their arrival, he discovered why she hadn't been able to immediately pursue her team members. He had gathered that it had been an ambush, and she had been caught in it, and injured—but she had escaped, and they hadn't. Her arm was still a little sore, but the only sign of it in her face was a little tightness every now and then.

A helicopter took them out. He observed her while she used specialized goggles to survey the landscape, scanning for the heat signatures representing guards and prisoners. Gazing down at the little he could see, he felt helpless—and, yet again, like she had been right. He was a liability, not an asset, not until she had managed to succeed at her mission. If she didn't, he would be trapped behind enemy lines, disavowed, left to find his own way back, and likely to be swallowed by the bleak landscape around them.

If anyone from her team was left, in fair condition... maybe those in charge would look the other way. Maybe they would count this risk worth it.

Ned touched her wrist, careful to make sure it was over her sleeve, without coming into direct contact with her. These soldiers didn't like direct contact, not if they could help it. "What's the plan?" he asked when she turned to look at him, the wheels spinning behind her keen blue eyes.

"How are you with an Uzi?"

He would do whatever he needed to get her, and her team if possible, out safely. He blinked once and nodded. "I can handle it. Armor?"

He needed body armor if he had any chance of surviving; they both knew it. The helicopter pilot made a quick stop for supplies, and Ned outfitted himself with a vest and goggles. The Uzi would be good for short, directed bursts; he knew from his training that firing it for too long at a time would just result in chaos, and likely an exploded gun. She told him to concentrate on the guard shacks and on anyone who came through the front gate. She would leave to the west.

Then her phone vibrated, and she checked the screen. He didn't have to read the message; he could see it on her face, in the way her jaw tightened, the slight slump in her shoulders. New intel. The rest of her team either wasn't there—or there was now no point in an extraction. The mission would have to be postponed, for at least a little while.

Immediately after, he felt every bit of the exhaustion and tension catch up with him. He had been operating on adrenaline for so long that the swift fall left him drained and bone-weary. She glanced up at him, studying his face, then glanced back down again.

Their windows were twenty-four hours long. If she were caught mid-mission... he could give her a black beauty or two to take with her, but if she didn't make it to the extraction point, if decompression began while she was still vulnerable... SOP would be for her to commit suicide. The intel she could provide was too potentially valuable.

It was too much. He wasn't enough, not for this, not for her. Not to save her.

He didn't say it, because she already knew it; she always had. He suggested that they find a safe house, somewhere to rest and wait for good intel. He knew she was eager to take some action, any action, but a mistake would put them at risk.

His internal clock was completely off, and although the sun was high by the time they were in a nearby safehouse, he was already more than ready to pass out. He just had one more thing to do, before he could relax.

Hank answered on the second ring; Ned would have been alarmed by the number of clicks and the time it took the call to connect, if he hadn't been so tired. "Nickerson? Jun said you had an emergency."

"Yeah. I need a location for an isolated safehouse. Might need to help with a comedown."

Hank was silent for a few seconds. "Give me your current location."

Ned read the coordinates off the phone he was using, and Hank came back after a few minutes with two options. "The first one's better, and if you see a white envelope sticking up out of the mailbox, you're okay," he said. "Blue, get the hell out of there. If neither works, let me know—but by then you might just need to steal a trailer and do the best you can. Let me know how it's going, all right?"

"I will. You mind dropping by to feed the cat? Or seeing if Jun can."

"I'll handle it. Take care of yourself." 

"Thanks."

She came back in a minute later. "Finished with your call?"

"Yeah."

"Eight hours. I'll get you some clothes before you're up." Ned raised his eyebrows. "I don't need as much sleep as you do. Go on."

If he slept soundly enough, she would just press his thumb against the scanner, transfer all the pills, and she would be gone...

"You'll be here when I wake up."

"Probably. Unless you wake up when I'm in town." She tilted her head on his narrowed glare. "Go on. We're wasting time."

He knew that she actually _could_ go to sleep on command, but he couldn't, not until that day. He laid down and passed out immediately.

He dreamed of her, but that didn't surprise him, not at all.

She actually was there when he woke. She had bathed, and her hair, still a little damp, was pulled back into a low ponytail. "Leaving in an hour," she told him.

He glanced at his watch, which was still set on east-coast time. "You'll need one en-route," he told her.

She nodded and looked at her phone again. He wondered how long she had been waiting for him to wake, impatient to leave. He wondered if the new place would be harder to infiltrate.

He wondered how much damage the second dose would do.

Again, they did a fly-by; Ned held his breath as she scanned it, waiting for any sign that her intel had been bad or that something was wrong. It was a hangar, which made their recon easier, but it made predicting and planning harder. They didn't have enough time to observe the place for twenty-four hours.

But the guards just wore battered denim and ballcaps. They traveled in pairs, carrying automatic rifles.

Ned gestured at them, and when he looked into Andrea's eyes, he knew she had already come to the same realization. "Think you're ready for this, Nickerson?" she asked, and he thought of it, suddenly. He might be about to die beside her, and he didn't even know her real name.

"As long as we can find good disguises."

He knew she would, though. And as afraid as he was, and he would never tell her... he was glad that he would be beside her. That if they were captured, at least he would be there to help, as little help as he could provide if they took away his biometric case.

And at least he _didn't_ know her name. At least he couldn't reveal anything about her.

She was eighteen hours away from her next dose by the time they were fully prepared, armor strapped under their loose, dirty denim shirts, her reddish-gold hair tucked under a ballcap. Through some contouring techniques that were almost frighteningly deceiving, she gave herself a stronger jawline, thicker darker brows, and even created the illusion of stubble shadow on her cheeks and upper lip. It would have been ludicrous, would have left him laughing, if the stakes weren't so high. She even went over his face a little when they were en route, using bronzer to give him the illusion of sun-baked skin.

He had never killed anyone, never been in a situation that had made him truly think about it, and he would likely have to soon. His stomach was queasy, and he felt alternating hot and cold waves.

She didn't feel that. The training had drilled it out of her. She had an objective and anyone who interfered was fair game. He had no idea how many people she had killed, and to her, infiltrating a place with much less security than the previous day's compound was probably a relief.

"Hey." He had to read her lips over the noise of the chopper blades, and her blue-eyed gaze was calm and steady. "Follow my lead and keep up and you'll be fine. All right?"

He nodded once, and she nodded back.

\--

Twelve hours.

He shot someone. It was unavoidable, and Ned hoped it had been in the arm, that it only incapacitated him, that it wasn't fatal. But he hadn't had any choice.

Andrea moved with precise, economical movements; she didn't waste energy or time on deliberation. She acted on instinct, each bullet a calculated risk.

They stole a truck, and together they helped the other four members of her captured team into the truck, freeing them and providing them with arms. None of them appeared compromised; several were bloodied, limping, and Ned knew exactly how much punishment they could take—so seeing them obviously hurt made him feel nervous. He didn't even recognize one with short, dark hair as female until Andrea hugged her and spoke to her, and he heard her voice—lower than usual, but still feminine.

A side effect of their conditioning and treatment was generally asexuality. They didn't experience sexual attraction, or even romantic attraction, since their emotions were almost entirely repressed. For the first time he saw a glimmer of something in Andrea's eyes. She had been genuinely afraid that she would never see her team, specifically this person, again. She had buried it deep, but he could see it.

He only understood her thanks to the months of therapy sessions and counseling he had provided to others like her. He was both glad to see that sign of emotion in her, and alarmed by it. According to his calculations, they had twelve hours until she would need another black beauty, or decompression would start. If it began before they were sequestered somewhere safe...

The pops and muzzle flash of gunfire issued from the flatbed of the truck as they roared toward the extraction point, as the rescued soldiers held off their pursuers. Andrea handled the driving, her attention divided between the rutted dirt road before them and the rearview mirror. He wanted to take her pulse, to check her pupils. Maybe the dosage wasn't enough. Maybe it was starting.

But there was nothing he could do, not yet, so he made sure his rifle was secure and checked behind them. The gunfire had died down. The side mirror had been reduced to a jagged tooth of silver, the rest shattered and kicked loose by a gunshot.

The helicopter pilot already knew that the four needed to be delivered to the closest friendly medical facilities, and Andrea and Ned helped walk them to the helicopter, constantly looking behind them to make sure they weren't about to be ambushed or discovered. Their time was almost spent, but they waited until the copter had successfully taken off before Ned turned the key in the ignition.

"All right. All right. We're going to a safe house," he told her. "We have eleven hours to make it. Are you ready?"

"Yeah," she whispered. "Yeah. I... we're going to need to..."

And then he saw the wound on her upper leg, the graze that had left her jeans soaked in blood. He had to get somewhere safe so he could treat it, so she wouldn't be suffering from significant blood loss on top of emotional turmoil in a few hours.

"My—" She gasped in a breath. "My real name is Nancy."


	2. Chapter 2

She showed no nervousness or self-consciousness at all when he pulled over forty-five minutes later and helped her work her jeans off. Her palms were covered in blood; she had applied pressure to staunch the flow, but the edge of the seat was soaked in it. His adrenaline gave him incredibly clear focus as he dug his emergency medical kit out of his pack and cleansed the wound, then evaluated it. Thanks to the blood loss, he didn't think a simple bandage would do it.

"I'm going to need to stitch this up," he told her. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Her jaw was tight. "Do it."

It had been part of his field training, but that didn't mean he was calm. He took a long deep breath and wiped his hands with antiseptic, and the needle too. "Hold onto something if you need to," he told her. "An—Nancy."

He heard a quiet hiss when the needle first pierced her skin, but that was all. He noticed that the plain elastic trim of her panties, high on her leg, was brushed with the faint rust of dried blood. He made his stitches small, as quick as he could, and once he had tied off the thread he gently bandaged it to keep from scraping it against her jeans. When he looked up into her face, he saw that she was pale, her lips a thin line.

"It's all right. Just hold on a little longer, okay?"

He had been in contact with her bare skin, but all he saw in her was pain from her wound. He shook out a few pain pills and she swallowed them, then chased them with at least half a bottle of water.

It was morning where they were, but they were thirteen hours ahead, and at 1 p.m. local time she would begin, if not sooner. The sky was just turning blue when they found the cabin Hank had told him to try first. Ned pulled out his field glasses.

The envelope sticking out of the box on the front porch was white.

Ned released a long sigh of relief. Hank had said he would ask someone to come in and stock it before they arrived, and when he looked over at the young woman in the passenger seat, she had gone into her energy-conservation mode again. Her face was still pale, though.

"All right," he said quietly. "I can carry you, if I need to."

"No." Her voice was a little rusty, but it didn't sound like she had been asleep. "Just might need to help me a little."

They left the truck camouflaged by some branches and strapped their packs on, and she groaned almost silently as she shifted her weight. He supported her on the side opposite her wound and wrapped his arm around her waist, and she wrapped hers around his shoulders.

The small house was almost impossible to find from the road, and seemed to have been dropped into a carved-out niche in the side of a tall hill. The weathered shingles and wooden front blended into the foliage. They found steps carved from the end of the trail up to the house, and she never complained, but he could tell the exertion was becoming harder and harder for her.

The air inside the house was warm and still, and her gun was in her hand before he had even opened the front door with the hidden key so they could step inside. She swept every room of the house with him by her side, but it was simple: an open living space in the front with a small kitchenette and seating area grouped around a radio and a coffee table, and three beds and a bathroom in the back. Two of the beds were stacked bunk beds, for soldiers passing through; the third bed was barely large enough to hold two people.

Once she was satisfied that they were alone, he helped her back to the front room and she collapsed onto the couch with a long sigh. From the front room they had a good view down to the only way to approach the cabin. At least the hill was so tall that any smoke from the wood-fired stove would likely dissipate before it drew any attention.

He set out the medication that he would give her in an hour, to help her transition into decompression without such a sharp fall. He was glad to see that the refrigerator and pantry were fully stocked with beverages and easy to prepare meals. Then he came over to her, and her eyes were closed, her lashes dark against her pale cheeks.

"Nancy," he said softly, and she slowly opened her eyes. "Let me check the stitches."

Together they took her pants off, and he gently eased the adhesive away from her skin. He released his breath in a sigh when he saw that the wound looked better.

Her lashes were low again when he glanced up at her face. "Juice," he said. "You need to replenish your fluids."

"Yeah." She looked as exhausted as he had felt when they had realized that their first rescue attempt had failed before it had even begun. She had been operating on adrenaline, just like he had. Now the members of her team were safe.

But she wouldn't be able to relax. She wasn't built that way. The soldiers resisted decompression. They hated it. They hated feeling so vulnerable, so exposed. And then, all at once, it all came roaring back to them.

She accepted the juice and another dose of pain medication, then fell quiet again.

He turned his attention to making an inventory of the cabin, putting everything in order so he would know where it was immediately. He opened the windows to let a cross-draft in and put away their supplies. He found clean clothing, towels, soap and shampoo.

Then he came back to her when it was time, and saw that her chest was rising and falling in shallow, even breaths. Her color had improved a little.

At least he knew her name. That would make this easier. Soon she wouldn't respond to her cover name anymore. Soon she would be as close to the woman she had been before her training as she would ever be.

"Nancy," he said quietly, and when she opened her eyes, they were shining. "Okay. I need you to take this, okay?"

She nodded and drew a deep breath. "Yeah," she whispered. She obediently opened her mouth when he asked her to, just to show that she had in fact swallowed the pill. "Can I sleep?"

It would make things easier. "Yeah," he told her, and she closed her eyes again. "Yeah. Let me get you a blanket."

She held onto that impervious facade even while she slept, usually; now she closed her eyes and the lines of her face were softer. He gazed at her for a moment and then realized that he was starving, that she likely was too.

Once she was completely out, Ned called Hank and told him that they had arrived safely and were settled in, and thanked him again for the help. He was too wired to eat, but he made sandwiches and put them away, waiting for her to wake. Then Ned stood at the front window, scanning the perimeter. Occasionally a bird rose from the trees, but otherwise they seemed to be entirely alone.

Then he heard it. The first low, broken sob.

He came to her immediately. She had been through this before, but not with him, and he didn't know what she would need. Apparently some of them needed contact; some of them needed extended, emotionally draining sessions that left both the doctor and the patient trembling with exhaustion, both of them often crying. Some of them needed confession, absolution.

Her head was down, buried in her hands. She was hunched over. Her nails were digging white crescents into her forehead.

He took her hands and gently pulled them away. Her eyes were bright blue with tears, her cheeks wet with them.

"Tell me what you need," he said softly. "Just tell me what you need. I'm here. It's going to be all right. I promise."

She looked up at him and opened her arms, and he sat down beside her, pulling her to him. She wrapped herself around him, and she was trembling, and he held her tight.

"It's going to be all right."

It was like a switch had been flipped, and in a way, that was exactly what had happened. It had all worn off, all the layers of protection and denial and strength. She had to purge it all over the next few days, everything she had pushed down and away, everything she had buried.

And the black beauties she had taken to make it through the mission would only make it worse.

She gripped him tightly, and he stroked her back. She needed to feel secure and safe and comforted. He wouldn't leave her side, save for a few moments at a time, for the next week. Hank had told him horror stories, of decompressing soldiers so devastated by guilt and regret that they became suicidal. He didn't even want to imagine what might have happened if he hadn't accompanied her on this trip.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God..."

He moved his palm against her back in regular, comforting strokes. He didn't shush her at all. "Talk to me, if you can," he murmured. "You don't have to. I'm here."

Part of the reason facilitating a decompression was so hard was because the subjects often discussed classified information, missions that were so dark no record at all existed. Ned knew protocol dictated that he take notes to add to her personnel file, the one so highly classified that even he didn't have full access to it. She might know that she shouldn't talk to him about it, but when she was like this, stripped so bare, she couldn't stop herself.

"I love her so much," Nancy said, and sniffled. "She's my best friend and I thought—I thought I might never see her again."

Ned moved back to look into her eyes, still stroking her back. He reached for a tissue and handed it to her, and she wiped her running nose, her eyes still streaming. He didn't say anything; she would tell him what she needed to.

"She... she's on my team," Nancy admitted, and Ned kept his expression impassive, vaguely sympathetic. It was a violation of protocol, and when he reported it, the two of them would be separated. "She... when I was first recruited, she found out what I was doing and applied too. I had to get her back. I _had_ to." Nancy sniffled again. "And she's okay..."

"Yeah. She's okay. Thanks to you."

She shuddered. "When I left her... I was so afraid. I would have done anything—it's my fault she was in danger at all..."

Ned shook his head, but didn't say anything. Her body was pressed tight against his, but all that drove it was a need for human contact, the contact she was generally denied and sought to avoid. It wasn't sexual. Sometimes sexuality was part of what never returned, for them. Their experiences and their reduced emotional availability meant maintaining a relationship after was generally hard and sometimes impossible.

They were torn apart and rebuilt again for one reason, and one reason only. Once that reason was gone...

The first night was the worst. She didn't sleep, and she had no appetite; he had to cajole her into eating, to threaten inserting an IV if she didn't cooperate. She cried, and when she drifted off, he didn't stray far from her. Three times she woke up screaming.

He slept beside her, in the same bed with her. He let her control how close they were; he stayed on his side of the bed, on his back, and if she laced her fingers through his or rested her head on his shoulder, he let her. When she nestled against him he stroked her back and her shoulder, keeping away from any touch that could be perceived as too intimate.

It was as much for her protection as his. In her current emotional state, she was completely unable to make competent decisions about her health, her well-being, or anything else. She was unfettered emotion, pure and raw and aching, and everything she felt was magnified. He was there to care for her—and the bond that level of trust and dependence created wasn't the same as true intimacy. Crossing the line would be dangerous for both of them, reckless and exploitative of him, potentially disastrous for her.

In a way, she wasn't herself, not at all. In a way she was her most elemental self now, the closest to herself that she had been in a long time. Once she was back to what passed for "normal," for her—she would mostly or completely forget this had ever happened.

When he woke, she was clinging to him, and he didn't think about it or question it. He just wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her back. "It's all right," he murmured. "It's all right. It's going to be okay."

"Daddy," she whispered, and buried her face against his shoulder.

She had murmured that a few times the day before, without elaborating; he had known it would come once she was ready. He didn't press her now. He just held her, still rubbing her back.

"He's gone," she whispered. "He's gone, he's gone..."

When she began to sob like her heart was breaking, he stilled his hands and just held her. "Nancy," he murmured. "Focus."

She made a sound that was almost like a hiccup as she tried to speak again. "I wanted him to be proud of me," she managed to gasp, between sobs. "I just—wanted him—to be proud of me. To be happy."

"I understand."

She sniffled. "He died last year," she whispered. "Couldn't even go home for his funeral. Couldn't even see him one last time..."

She cried harder, until she was almost hysterical. Ned sat up and wrapped his arms around her and she pressed herself against him, still sobbing. He held her tight, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I know you were hurt."

"I miss him so much," she sobbed. "He was all I had, for so long."

"Tell me about him."

She talked about her father all morning, while they were eating breakfast, during their slow walk in the valley near the small house, while they were preparing lunch together. He had been a district attorney when she was young, and then a defense attorney for a few years. Then he had been asked to run for state government, and she had been both incredibly proud of his political career and intensely jealous of the time it claimed. She had been thirteen during his first year in office. From what Ned had pieced together, she had been desperate for his approval _and_ his attention. She had wanted him to be proud of her career. She had thought she might be a detective, but that wasn't enough. Then she had been approached about joining the program.

She hated feeling vulnerable or emotional, or feeling as helpless as she had. She had joined the program at the age of seventeen, and she had quickly risen to the top of her class. He knew some of that, of course, but some of it was above his clearance. He had known she was young, but to have gone through the training when she was seventeen, to lose out on a normal transition to adulthood... it made his heart ache. Many of the soldiers in the program had been recruited from special ops teams; they had been aware of the dangers and risks and the kind of life they would have. She had been so damn young. She was still so young.

And she hadn't even been able to mourn her father until now.

She cried in her sleep, when she rested after they finished lunch. When he heard her low, keening wails begin, he went to her and held her and comforted her. He felt her nails drag against his shoulder blades as she clutched the fabric of his shirt in her fists, her every muscle straining, her chest heaving with sobs.

He couldn't imagine losing either of his parents, much less both. They had been sad when he had moved to the east coast for his work, but they had understood, and he went home at least two or three times a year, or they came to visit him. To him, her grief was more than natural, but it was heartbreaking that she had had to wait so long to go through it.

After dinner, once night had fallen, she pulled on a sweatshirt and used the cuffs to wipe away the tears still sliding down her cheeks. "What does it look like, from up there?"

Ned came over to her, and realized what she meant. "I don't know," he admitted. "Want to go up there?"

"If you're up for it, Nickerson."

She reached for his hand as they left the cabin together, and he took it in his and laced his fingers between hers, and it was the most natural thing in the world. This was how it was sometimes between the therapists and those going through decompression. She was opening up to him, trusting him—and Ned had been trained to maintain his distance through it, to keep their relationship at the right level of intimacy, because sometimes it was so easy to mistake the simple trust she had in him for something more. After all, for her, later, this would feel like a dream. She just needed to let all of this out so she could go back to her career and be the best soldier she possibly could be.

To her, he would feel like the last echo of a dream—except the soldiers in the program didn't dream, when they were what passed for their normal. Only Ned would remember this, although it might hurt him to recall it later.

They climbed the hill, all the way to the top, taking the time to scrutinize the land below for anything suspicious. Neither of them saw anything, though—Nancy found it hard to concentrate on much for long, which was part of the reason Ned did all he could to keep them safe—and she gasped when she saw the view from the top of the hill.

"God, it's so nice out here." She drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, then dropped into a cross-legged sitting position. "God. Just look at the stars."

He sat down beside her and looked up. She was right; so far from any light pollution, from the top of the hill, the sky looked infinite, almost incomprehensible. He moved his palms behind him and tipped back, and then Nancy sprawled on the grass, her arms folded under her head.

"We never do this," she told him. "We never have the time. We're so busy. I can't remember the last time I was able to just..." She sighed. "Just breathe and... and it just feels like we move so fast, so that _this_ won't happen, y'know? So we won't actually be able to slow down and realize what we're doing."

"Mmm."

She turned her head and looked up at him, and her blue eyes were shining. "Is it worth it?" she whispered. "Is what we've done worth it?"

Ned drew a long deep breath. "The missions run by your team and others in the project directly saved hundreds of lives last year," he told her. "There's no way to tell how many lives your team and others indirectly saved. Bloodshed and destruction averted. Is it worth it? On the macro level, yes, of course it is. For you personally? Only you can answer that."

"A nice party line." She sighed and looked up again. "I have nothing other than this. _Nothing_ , except her and..." She made a soft noise. "Friends I haven't really known in so, so long. I could hardly call them friends now. Just people I used to know. There's nothing _home_ to me now. It would be a relief, I think, to die on the job. As long as I didn't lose George first."

He stayed quiet. Generally she filled the silence with what she wanted or needed to say, with little encouragement, and he couldn't say what was on his mind. It wasn't his place. Not now, not while she was so fragile—or ever, really. It was her life.

She glanced over at him again, as he moved onto his back beside her, releasing a quiet breath as his spine settled against the soft grass. He hadn't really let himself realize the strain the last few days had put on him, and he didn't begrudge his decision to come with her, but decompression was draining. The stakes were too high, if he were to let his mind wander or to let his guard down. The last thing in the world he wanted was to wake from some brief nap and find her gripping a bloody steak knife, slumped and lifeless in the small kitchen. He knew all too well it was a possibility.

"You don't approve."

Hank had never put it in as many words as this, but Ned believed his mentor felt the same way he did. He was in it for _them_ , for the people like Nancy and George. He was in it because _they_ needed someone who could help them adapt and survive and find some happiness, somehow. It wasn't out of any innate sense of patriotism or loyalty, or simple investment in the program itself. They needed help. He wanted to, and he could, help.

Ned released his breath in a long silent sigh. "It's not my life," he told her softly. "It's yours. I think you're an incredibly brave human being and I know a lot of people owe their lives to you." He set his jaw. "I'm so sorry that you'll never have what mattered most to you. But I can't imagine that your father was ever disappointed in you, or in anything you did, Nancy."

She moved closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her. She cried silently, still gazing up at the stars, her side against his. Her tears soaked the fabric and the collar of his shirt.

"I guess it's pretty stupid to imagine him up there," she commented, her voice still shaking a little. "Looking down on me. He—he always had something better to do with his time. He raised me and he gave me all of his... all of the attention that he could. And I still wanted more." She sniffled. "I would have been a Secret Service agent, I would have been around him all I could... but he always said I was meant for so much. That I was too smart to... to waste myself or my potential."

She went quiet for a moment, and he rubbed her upper arm. "No matter what, you haven't wasted your potential," he told her. "You haven't. Ninety-ninth percentile, right?"

She chuckled quietly. It was a weak joke among the recruits; only the top one percent, only the best of the best, made it through training and into the program. Just her membership in that group was an achievement. To gain that membership at the young age of seventeen, and to have lasted this long—he didn't know what that made her. Extraordinary, at least.

"Ninety-ninth percentile," she said quietly. "Sometimes nothing matters, and I think that I'll just drift away. It was better, before. When he..." She sniffled again. "When he loved me."

When she rolled toward him, he welcomed it; he held her, and instead of shushing her, he made a soft humming noise and stroked her back. He knew that often what they felt during decompression, what they experienced, was magnified ten or a hundred times, that it was easy for them to bruise and hurt. It was all her worst fears come to life, and apparently one of the worst was the loss of her father's approval and love.

After a long moment, with a sigh, she calmed down and rolled back to her place beside him. The breeze felt cool through his tear-dampened shirt.

"We will never be here again," she said suddenly.

Ned raised his eyebrows, still looking up. "Oh?"

"The earth is always moving," she said. "We could come back a year from now and those trees and rocks might still be here, but we would be so many miles away. Our bodies would be different. Everything would be different. No matter what, we can't keep it. We can't keep any of it."

"Hmm." He was afraid to interrupt her, to influence her.

Slowly, she sat up and then hugged her knees. "I'm not who I was," she whispered. "Sometimes I think that if I go much longer like this, that he wouldn't even know who I am anymore. And maybe I won't either. Just a shell with everything drained out. Sand for blood. A rock for a heart."

He pushed himself up and slipped his arm around her shoulders. She wasn't saying anything else and she wasn't crying, and that worried him. He would have to tell the people in charge that Nancy and George's connection was too close, that one or both of them needed to be reassigned. If that happened, though, her last link to what had been her identity might be severed.

She had been too young. Maybe they hadn't thought so, but he did.

"All right," he told her. "We're going to go inside and make s'mores over the fire. And I want you to tell me everything you remember about who you were, Nancy, from before. We'll write it all down. It won't be lost. _You_ won't be lost. I won't let you."

She looked over at him, and when she did her eyes were shining, but the expression in them was different. She studied his face for a long moment, her brow furrowed slightly, as though she couldn't quite find the words. "It's never been like this before," she whispered. "I don't know... it's all a blur, but I know that."

It was part of the therapy, making journal entries, drawing pictures—regressing. Ned hadn't used it before, but he wanted to, with her. Once he returned, though, anything she had created would be turned over to administration, including his notes on what had been said and done. Ned had started his log of the case, but he had jotted down only a few scant notes so far.

The words would exist, but she wouldn't remember their creation. It was just as well, he supposed. It would be more baggage, and they were supposed to be traveling light.

He was hyperaware of every chirp, snapping twig, and rustle in the woods around them, but the house was just as they had left it. He locked them in and they roasted marshmallows over the fire, then sandwiched them between graham crackers and split chocolate bars. She hissed and licked her fingers when the charred marshmallow burned her fingertips, but she was smiling.

"Dad was the first one to do this," she said. "To make s'mores with me."

Ned found the small tape recorder that he had used briefly earlier, making sure the light flashed on and that media was loaded. "Do you remember how old you were when you and your dad first made s'mores?"

"I was six," she murmured, after a long pause. She looked down at the treat in her hands, not into his eyes. "He had been—away a lot right before my birthday and he asked what I wanted to do, and I said to go camping. My birthday's in—in April." She furrowed her brow while she was recalling that. He wondered when she had last done anything to commemorate it. "It was cold. We were still in Illinois then. He showed me tracks, human tracks, animal tracks. We made s'mores. He laughed. I... There were times when he didn't laugh much and it made me so happy to see it, but a little scared too... and he told me that I looked so much like Mom. Half of me—half of me is hers. Half of me belongs to a ghost. All of me, now."

When she looked up at him, her eyes were wet—but so were his, and he knew that he _had_ to get a grip on himself, that one of them had to be the strong one. It was his job.

"You belong to yourself," he told her, and his voice somehow stayed even.

Her lips curled up in a small humorless smile. "Oh, I have a number, sir," she said quietly, looking down again. "Property of the United States Government. And they sent you here to make sure that all the springs go back in and the cogs line up and I can go through another dozen Pho Tets before my time is up. Don't think I don't know that." She looked at the digital recorder, but she didn't touch it or stop it before she looked back at him. "Another two years..." She sniffled and wiped her running nose. "Another two years and it'll be a relief to stop. Do you know how strange it is to know that you're tired, but you aren't able to feel it..."

"I don't," he admitted. "It's hard to imagine. So much of what you do is hard for me to imagine. My entire career is focused on how clients feel, how they react and respond."

"So this must be a field day for you." She smiled through her tears. She seemed more lucid than usual, and he wondered why.

"Good try." He gave her a small smile. "Tell me more about your dad."

She looked down and shook her head, slowly, five times. "It won't bring him back," she whispered.

"But it might bring _you_ back."

She brought her head up; her eyes were miserable. "I'm gone," she whispered. "None of me is left. A hundred and three weeks—it can't just be wiped clean with a week's vacation, and this isn't even—" She reached up and wiped her wet cheeks. "And five days from now I'll be gone. This—this will be _dead_ and I'll be glad. That _she's_ in control again and all this pain..."

When she trailed off, he tilted his head. "You feel like you're a different person when you're operational."

"I know I am. I _know_ it." She sniffled again. "And..."

He waited a full minute. Her mouth was trembling, but she didn't speak again. "And what," he said softly.

"I don't know how to live this way," she said, so quietly that he had to strain to hear it. "When I'm honest with myself, I don't want to. I've never..." She sniffled again. "I've always had someone in my corner and I don't anymore. Nothing other than this."

"One day you'll be taken out of the field," he told her. "Maybe in two years, maybe in four, maybe longer. Maybe in three months, after an injury. You will have a life after that. Most of what I do is helping people in exactly that situation figure out how to put their lives back in order. You'll need a strong support system, or you're right; it would be so, so easy to just give up. But you're stronger than that. I know you are."

She met his eyes, and she was quiet again as she searched his gaze. Then her lips moved, silently.

_Do you really think I'll live that long._

Ned's heart throbbed once, hard.

_Do you really think that's the only recorder here._

He tilted his head, and when the tears began to brim in her eyes and slip down her cheeks, he didn't sense any artifice in it. She cried out and turned for the door, and he followed her without a second thought.

She was seated where they had been earlier, unconsciously stroking her fingertips over the fabric covering the bandage on her thigh, gazing up. "Did you leave it inside?" she asked him, her cheeks gleaming with the damp tracks of tears.

"Yeah. Why would you think—"

"Because it happens," she told him. "I'd rather it be in the field than after, some coward with a scope and a rifle, some 'attempted carjacking.'" She bent her knees and wrapped her arms around them again. "Until I'm used up and I can't be a threat anymore."

"A threat about what?" Ned shook his head. "A lot of... of this life, it fades after..."

"Not Pho Tet."

That wasn't the actual name of it; Pho Tet was a ghost story passed between recruits in training. Pho Tet could be anything: a ghost town, a concentration camp, killing fields. They didn't talk about it, once they were out of the field. It was a moment during a career, the kind that could break a soldier's spirit and leave him or her adrift, unable to comprehend a world that would allow such pain or horror or suffering.

From what Ned understood, most soldiers saw one.

Nancy had been through three of them, and she began to talk to him about it.

Ned generally considered himself unflappable, and he had developed his poker face over years of training and supervising therapy sessions, keeping what he was feeling out of his expression. He supposed that, in a way, it made him and Nancy similar. She was just able to bury hers deeper.

He threw up, though. Her voice was low and toneless and terribly disaffected, and he knew she was seeing it all in her mind's eye as she narrated it. He had no thought of the recorder, or of taking any notes, or _ever_ discussing it again. He just emptied the contents of his belly, coughing and heaving, his eyes streaming, nose stinging. She waited until he was gasping his breath back to continue.

He didn't understand. He didn't understand how she hadn't walked away—but _this_ was what made her able to stay, in the face of perfect horror. Those who had died were lost. The survivors weren't beyond her help. The survivors, those she could help—that was why she stayed.

She needed to help. She couldn't help her father.

She had to breathe out her poison, and it was his to breathe in.

He knew it would give him nightmares; he knew that he couldn't do what she did and bury it until it was safe to let it out. No wonder she woke screaming. No wonder it was easier to let her heart slowly turn to stone instead of letting herself feel this. It would have been so easy for Ned to tell himself that this was a fantasy, a nightmare, a fiction... but he could never believe that.

His ears still throbbed after, and he didn't realize that she had stopped speaking, that her story had ended with the extraction. She was looking over at him, and the tracks of her tears had dried on her cheeks. Her arms were wrapped around her bent knees, her chin propped up on them. Her posture was defensive.

"Tell me they'll let me live now," she said softly.

"Tell me they'll let _me_." His voice was a little rough, now. "Our equipment?"

"Yeah." Her gaze drifted away from his. "We saw those assholes using it. We didn't talk about it, _ever_. During the worst of it we're cleaning up our own mess. _Our_ fault." Her voice caught at the end of it, in a quiet sob.

"Not your fault."

"I'm part of it." She shook her head. "I'm part of it and it's hollowed me out and eaten me alive."

He moved beside her and slid his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned toward him, resting her head against him.

She didn't wake up screaming that night. But when they went to sleep he was spooned up behind her, his arm resting over her, and her hair smelled faintly of wildflowers. He woke when she woke crying, because her slender, solidly muscular body shook, and one of those times she turned so she was facing him and he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

"I know," he murmured, rubbing her back. "I'm here."

But he wouldn't always be. It was a false comfort he offered. He would be here as long as _this_ version of her was here, and then she would go back to her life and he to his. All her doubts silenced and her nightmares muted. Hollowed out and perfect again.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning she sat up, shoving her hair out of her face, her eyes still swollen and puffy from crying. In those few seconds before he came to full awareness, they were reduced to a man and a woman waking up together after a night of embracing each other, holding each other, and it felt almost painfully domestic.

For him—oh, for him, the line was beginning to blur.

If they had been at Linkhaven, Ned would have been able to make an intelligent decision, possibly to transition her to another therapist. Becoming too close to the subject was almost guaranteed to end badly, and Ned scrubbed his palms against his face and reminded himself of what he already knew with every fiber of his being. Losing focus on why he was here, developing feelings for her, would just hurt them both. He was falling for—

Ned bowed his head and forced himself to take a long deep breath. Nancy made a soft sound beside him.

He wasn't strong enough for this. He just wasn't strong enough for this. But he had no other choice. He was her only support out here, the only way she would make it through.

"Go ahead to the bathroom," he told her. "I need to take a shower, after. If that's all right."

She nodded; her eyes were slitted and bloodshot, and she drew a deep breath too before she pushed back the covers and went to the bathroom.

Protocol said that if she needed to shower, he needed to be on the other side of the curtain; he couldn't be around her _all_ the time, though, and he only planned on taking a five-minute shower. Ned was fully aware that if she decided, she could grab a sharp knife and do herself serious harm before he would even be aware of it or able to stop it. Her mental state was fragile, but in his judgement, she would be all right for five minutes.

"I'll make us breakfast once I'm out," he told her, and she nodded as she began to rummage in her clothes. She had her head down, and she swept the reddish-gold curtain of her hair back over her shoulder.

"You'll be all right?"

"Yeah." Her voice was gruff, and when he touched her shoulder, she finally glanced up at him. "I'll be okay. Go."

He would have to let her go, and she would likely be facing punishment for violating the rules and going after her team. He hated himself for wishing that it might result in her dismissal, that it would give her the excuse she would need to start rebuilding her life. More than anything, he _never_ wanted her to go through anything like what she had told him about the night before, ever again. When he hadn't been holding her, comforting her and stroking her back, everything she had said had come to him as nightmares. Dogs snarling over scavenged infants' ribcages. Blood crawling up from trouser cuffs. Even remembering was enough to leave him feeling nauseated and angry.

She should never have been made to go through anything like that; none of them should have. What she had said had been right; the iron and concrete holding her up from the inside only existed because other parts of her had been sacrificed to make the space. Going through what she had had killed a part of her.

It wouldn't stop. It wouldn't stop because she and her team were _good_.

Ned focused on that in the shower. He focused on his concern for her and how he could best help her, while trying to ignore the knowledge that if he did his work well, she would just be subjected to more of the same.

_And this is what_ I'm _supposed to do. I put the band-aids on and I do everything I can to make sure they_ do _come home. Including her. And once she's home..._

Once she came home, the _she_ who returned would not be the _she_ here with him now.

Try as he might, deep where he would never, ever admit it, he knew that he was falling in love with a ghost.

He finished his shower in four and a half minutes, using every bit of his self-control to ignore his morning erection until it went away. He hastily toweled off and dressed, suddenly convinced that when he came out of the bathroom he would find her long-gone. He emerged in jeans and a t-shirt, his usual outfit, his dark hair still damp.

Nancy was sitting on one of the barstools, a cup of coffee in front of her. The lamp's shade was askew. Nancy's head was bowed.

He realized why a moment later. He was still staring in some shock at the counter when she pushed off the stool and went into the bathroom. She returned thirty seconds later and added one more to the pile of tangled wires and equipment, which _definitely_ hadn't been there the night before.

Nancy sighed as she sat down on her stool again. "Burst transmitters," she said, almost to herself. "There's a relay but it probably waits until it has a certain amount stored to transmit, to save energy. With any luck nothing had made it out."

"And they aren't working now," he said, and it wasn't really a question.

She shook her head, her cup of coffee almost touching her lips, then took a sip.

"I didn't know."

She brought her head up and searched his eyes. She had bathed hers in cold water, and they looked almost normal again. "Yeah," she said softly.

"The tape—last night."

She shook her head and swept her hair away from her face again. For the first time he saw a scar at her jawline, and he wondered if she remembered how it had happened, if he would ever know what had caused it.

Dorian Gray. He painted all the cracks and shored her up and restored her to "normal," while all that was left inside her dwindled.

He shook his head slightly. He couldn't think about it this way. He would drive them both crazy.

"Do you think I don't know," she said softly. "That we don't know. I thought you were different, but I know how this works. The recordings go into my file. I feel like I'm fucking _drunk_ for a week and it's _so damn hard_ to keep anything to myself and the recordings go into my file. You'll never convince me that I _need_ this, that it's not just another test. That it all isn't just one massive test. So _fuck them._ " She nodded at the tangled equipment with a tight jerk of her head.

Ned shook his head, and closed the space between them, gripping her upper arms without squeezing, looking straight into her miserable eyes. "I came here for _you_ ," he told her. "Not the fucking program, not to shove every cog and spring back into place so you could be the perfect soldier again. I came here for _you_."

"Without even knowing my real name."

"Without even knowing your real name," Ned said. He realized that while he wasn't shouting, his voice was louder than it should have been. He released her arms, but he saw that her gaze was fixed on his face. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "But if it came down to it, you wouldn't risk anything for me," she murmured, although there was no vehemence in her voice, only something akin to curiosity.

"I'd risk whatever I needed, for you," he told her. "God— _damn_ it, you always fucking do this. Do you know how many relationships I've managed to trash in the past few years? I can't fucking turn _this_ off. You're my patient. I want to do everything I can for you. If that means calls at three o'clock in the morning, if that means driving out in the pouring rain to make sure you don't shoot up, then I gladly do it. If it means boarding a plane away from the entire rest of my damn life, putting my _life_ at risk so I can help you..."

She tilted her head and blinked once, then crossed her arms. "Sleeping in the same bed with me," she murmured, and kept her gaze on his face. "I don't wonder that girlfriends find it hard to understand."

Ned flushed a little. "You're the only patient I've ever done that with," he told her, his voice almost a little gruff.

"Sure."

" _Yes._ " He shook his head. "You need breakfast."

Although he had no doubt that she had discovered all the listening devices in their hideout, he still waited until mid-morning, when they were out on their daily hike, to discuss anything more pressing with her. He wasn't sure how their hands had become joined, whether it had been his initiative or hers, and he was doing all he could not to feel self-conscious about it, given everything else.

It had been a long time since he had felt this way—ill at ease in his own skin, nervous as a middle-schooler. He had been calm and assured and confident for so long. But being here with her was like nothing else he had experienced in his life, not even during his other decompression.

"How are you feeling?"

She shrugged, sweeping her hair out of her face again, glancing down as she walked around a pile of rocks. "Nervous," she admitted. "I don't know what I'll do if I get back to my team and George has been transferred out. But..." She shook her head with a quiet snort. "I guess at that point I won't care. Do you know how fucking scary that is?"

"I can imagine."

She shook her head again. "I don't know if anyone can."

"She's important to you. Important to the way you see yourself."

Nancy sighed. "I feel responsible for what happens to her, and the longer we're doing this, the more likely it is that she will be hurt somehow. Maybe permanently." She shrugged. "There's no good outcome here."

"Part of why you stay in is to keep her safe."

She glanced up at him. "And part of why you do this is to help people."

"All of why I do this. But we're not here to talk about me."

She glanced down again, moving closer to him as their path approached a tree and they walked around it. "The most I've done with a guy is kiss him," she said, and Ned almost stumbled on a tree root. His heart was pounding, and he hoped it didn't show on his face.

"Oh?" he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral, not eager or judgemental.

"Yeah. I—it's weird. I can remember thinking guys were hot..." She shrugged. "But dating felt like a waste of time, even when I was still in high school. They just didn't _get_ me. Maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe I—" She broke off again. "It was just another way I felt different from everyone else. I think it was kind of a relief to figure out that I didn't care about it anymore. If that makes sense."

"Romantic relationships are hard, but your career, that makes them almost impossible. I think you do everything you can to make yourself independent, self-reliant. Opening yourself up to someone else is a risk, and it leaves you vulnerable."

Her smile was sardonic. "Sometimes you sound like a psych one-oh-one textbook."

"It doesn't take a master's degree to see that you don't like to talk about yourself."

"Or that you don't either." She swung their hands gently, glancing over at him. "Or how much your pulse rate went up when I talked about kissing."

Ned had to force himself not to glare at her. "I'm not made of stone," he pointed out.

"Good."

Ned was quiet for a moment. "I remember you telling me about a friend you had, Helen."

She released his hand and crossed her arms. "That was a long time ago," she murmured. "She's back home and safe and I'm glad. I doubt she ever even thinks about me."

"Maybe," Ned murmured. "But I'm sure that it's hard to forget you, Nancy."

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, just what any career spy wants to hear," she murmured. "You say that now..."

"I haven't forgotten you since we met. Since you were Andrea and you were cranky and huffy and glaring at me like I was a complete waste of your time."

"You were," she replied, but her blue eyes were twinkling when he glanced over at her. "I... I don't remember much about that night, but I'm sorry. And maybe I was incredibly impatient, but you... I don't know."

He raised his eyebrows as she shoved a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Oh?"

"I remember thinking you were different, then." Her voice was quieter. "And I guess you were, since you weren't read-in then. But even now... I guess maybe it's just because it's easy to believe you. And that's the easiest way to make sure I'm hurt." She sighed.

He reached for her hand again. There was nothing he could say, and he knew that. He had already told her that he would be there for her, that he cared about her as a human being instead of just a soldier. She would trust him, to some degree; she had no other choice. The rest of it was up to her.

It would be easier to keep his distance. He couldn't.

"Tell me about who you were when you were with Helen."

She smiled. "When I was with her, I was the brave one," she said. "The adventurous one. Helen always thought that maybe we should talk to the authorities or leave well enough alone. Sometimes, when we had no other choice, she could be brave, and I was always proud of her. She and I had some good times together. And then..." Her smile faded a little. "Then she found other things to do. It was never malicious. I missed her anyway, though. I..." She glanced down. "It would've been easier," she whispered. "If I had been more like her. If I had just..."

Her voice trailed off, and he slowed his steps, then wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "It doesn't matter now," he told her softly. "She found her own path and you found yours. Focus on what you _can_ change, not what you can't."

"And what is it I can change?" she asked, glancing over at him. "I... I wonder how many times I've had this fucking conversation. There's so much that's just _gone_ , now. Maybe I _have_ tried to change. And then maybe someone like you handed me another pill and that was the end of it." She sighed.

Ned had to swallow hard before he could speak again. "You told me yesterday that you thought your experiences meant you could never really have a true retirement," he said.

"And if you tell them about it in your report..." She shook her head.

"I'm not going to."

She looked over at him. They had reached a small clearing, and her steps slowed as they approached a large tree. Over their heads, above the canopy, the sky was clear blue, cloudless and perfectly serene. She took another step and the sunlight, dappled by leaves, cast a pattern of shadow over her reddish-gold hair.

_Life is a series of moments. As often as you can, let yourself remember that._

He had always seen that as a mere platitude. But he remembered her telling him that they would never be where they were again, and he locked the sight of her into his memory, the way her eyes shone, the feel of her hand in his. He was the only one who would bear witness, the only one who could.

And despite everything else, the uncertainty and his growing feelings for her and the emotional roller coaster of the past few days, he let himself fully realize where he was. He had traveled halfway around the world with her, contributed—even in such a small way—to her rescue mission, and he had pushed himself more than he ever had before. It was no vacation, not at all, but he really _would_ never be here again, not like this. And he hadn't really let himself stop and realize it or appreciate it.

Almost no one knew where he was. The setting was beautiful and he hadn't been able to engage in this level of therapy in a while.

He didn't let himself think about how much of his excitement and optimism depended on her presence.

She took another step and dropped to the ground in a graceful sweep, tipping her head back to feel the sunlight on her face. He sat down too, still watching her.

"You say that now," she said. "That you won't tell them everything. They're going to question the bugs being deactivated. They're going to go over your report with a fine-tooth comb, and it's possible that they've somehow managed to plant some devices I haven't found. And maybe when I go home, they'll tell me it's over and I'm done."

"And it would be that simple."

She sniffled, and he saw three tears fall down her cheeks in quick succession before she reached up to wipe her cheeks with her palms. "I don't know," she said quietly, her voice cracking a little, and he recognized that as a lie. "Oh God..."

He slid his arm around her and she rested her head against his shoulder. "What are you afraid of?" he murmured.

She sniffled again. "Some things are worse than dying," she whispered.

She compared decompression to being drunk, but if that was true, near the end of their time together, she seemed to be sobering up a little. She had better impulse control and her mood swings stabilized, for the most part. The wave was beginning to flatten again.

And they filled all the storage available with stories about her past, about her childhood, about her father and her father's housekeeper Hannah, about Helen and her other best friends Bess and George. She cried some when she talked about her father, and he understood. She told him other stories that he wouldn't have believed she had survived, if he hadn't known her—and some that sounded like dreams, about glowing horses and white-robed figures in moonlight, stolen diamonds and lost inheritances. Even without her training, she had apparently been incredible.

He told himself he was just obeying protocol and the rules when he slid into bed beside her every night. He told himself he was just strengthening her trust in him and their connection. But he was becoming so, so terribly accustomed to the feel of her body beside his in bed, the soft reassurance he murmured in her ear when she woke gasping or shaking with sobs. He would miss her, when this was over.

He would more than miss her.

God, it took every bit of his self-control to keep himself neutral and impassive when he woke and the first thing he saw was her, her face, her beautiful blue eyes. Sometimes he relaxed enough to joke with her, to hear her laugh and see her smile, and it made his heart rise. Sometimes in the silence after her laughter, sometimes when it was just the two of them walking side by side or working on preparing a meal together, she would glance over at him and he would look over at her and their gazes would catch and hold, and he felt it reach inside him and wrap around his heart.

In those moments it was more than the magnetic pull he felt to someone when there was mutual sexual attraction, when he craved a kiss or a caress. That was a part of it too, and that was undeniable, just as undeniable as it was wrong. He kept coming back to it: she would be gone, and space wouldn't be all that separated them. This version of her would cease to exist.

He hadn't known it was possible to feel this level of desperation and need and despair. He knew that only his own self-control could keep him safe. It wouldn't hurt so much to lose her if he never spoke it, if he just let her go. If he just went back to his life and put this out of his mind...

And then he opened his eyes on the morning of that last day, the last full day of their time together, and he knew it would take him a long time to get past this. He wasn't sure if he ever would. She looked into his eyes, and he could see the dried tracks of tears in the corners of her eyes. He reached for her and she moved into his arms, nuzzling against him, relaxed and safe, trusting him.

How she felt about him didn't matter. How he felt about her didn't matter.

He held her and rubbed her back and brushed his lips against the crown of her head. She made a soft sound like a sigh, and he closed his eyes.

His heart told him that he couldn't do this again, but he knew that he would never need to. All he needed to do was get through today. Then he could go back to his life and she would be a different person when she went back to her own. He would be able to help people and feel good again, and he wouldn't even feel the temptation to pick up the phone and try to call her, because she wouldn't be _this person_ anymore.

But he was in love with her—oh God, beyond in love with her. He told himself that it was just infatuation, that he only felt this way about her because the risk and pain and boredom were off the table. He would never know her long enough to grow tired of her, for the wonder to pass, and the way he felt for her now would be frozen, perfect, forever. He just couldn't quite make himself believe it.

He couldn't believe that what he loved about her would truly be gone in just a few hours. She would still be herself. Some part of her.

_But for how long?_ That was what scared him the most.

She sighed and began to move away from him. "One more day," she whispered, and he watched her go, closing his eyes when she closed the bathroom door.

He came out of the bathroom after her, tugging his shirt down, to find her seated on their bed, already fully dressed too. Her blue eyes were fixed on his face.

"If you only had one day left to live, what would you do?"

He smiled, surprised, but there was no humor in it. "I've never really thought about it," he admitted. "So I don't know."

"Think about it now. If you knew this was the last day you would be alive."

He gazed at her, and though he knew exactly why she was asking, he did think about it. "What would you do?"

She gave him a bittersweet smile. "I've already died," she told him. "Remember? Four times already. Tonight it'll be five. And I don't remember it at all." She looked down. "I can do anything I want today, and tomorrow when I open my eyes, it will all be gone. Like none of it ever happened. Do you know how that feels? All I know is that you'll hand me a pill and when I open my eyes, I'll be a different person."

"And you were the person who told me that we can never be in the same place twice," he pointed out. "We all wake up different people, with only the continuity of our memories to keep us constant. I'd find the idea terrifying," he admitted. "To find scars on my skin that I couldn't remember, to know that entire days were missing from my memory. I wish I knew what to tell you, Nancy."

She sniffled, then brought her chin up and pushed her hair back. "I have a choice," she whispered. "As terrible as it might be. If I don't take that pill."

It was her choice, and he would never force her to take the pill that would end her decompression and restore her to "normal," ready to return to the field. She would need to go through her transition back to civilian life, though, and he wasn't quite sure what that entailed. He only knew that he didn't have the medication or the training to help her through it.

And she would be _alive_. The person he had come to know over the last week and a half would be changed, but she would be real. Even though she had told him that she didn't know how she would survive outside this life anymore, or if she wanted to. Even though her best friend was still a member of her team, and would be in danger, beyond Nancy's help.

Even though she was afraid she had seen too much for them to allow her to leave.

"What happens if you don't take it?" he asked, his voice so quiet.

_Some things are worse than dying._

She sniffled again. "I don't know," she admitted. "Not for sure. But it's one way to make sure this is over."

"Either way, you lose this."

"Yeah." She gasped in a breath.

"But you—with everything you know how to do, couldn't you..." He made a vague gesture. "Go into hiding. Make sure they can't find you."

She gave him a small humorless smile. "You forget," she whispered. "I've been the person on the other end. I've been the one hunting down people marked as enemies of the state. We _don't stop_ , Ned. And... and once we get back... you..."

"I what?" He crouched down in front of her so he could see into her face.

"They'll ask about the bugs. About what I said, all of it. You'll be in trouble. I did leave one of the bugs in place, so you can claim that you had no idea, that you thought at least one was still working."

Ned raised his eyebrows. "You mean the bugs I didn't know about in the first place."

"But of course you suspected it."

He shook his head, slowly. "No. I didn't. I promise you."

She studied his eyes. "I left one in the lamp. Tell them you thought it was still working. You honestly didn't know."

"I didn't."

She blew a breath of air through tight lips. "I believe you," she murmured.

He had felt hints of it, but for the first time he let himself wonder if this had all been a test, not just for her but both of them. If the other team had been conveniently "unavailable," to see if she would break the rules. If they doubted his adherence to the rules too, or if this would have happened no matter what therapist she approached to help her. If Nancy had thought that he was only paying lip service to her privacy and to any true confidentiality, how could she fully trust him? If _everything_ in the entire place had been bugged, were either of them trusted?

It was too much to process, and Ned couldn't. He would think about it later, maybe talk to Hank about it—if he thought _Hank_ could be trusted.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked her, and she brought her chin up a little so she could look into his face again. Her eyes were shining. Her arms were folded protectively over her belly.

She didn't respond, though, at least not immediately. Instead she stood and reached for his hand, bypassing the kitchen and promise of breakfast as she led him outside. For this, their last day together, the sky had begun to turn a deeper grayish-blue, and the wind was cooler, carrying with it the hint of ozone and rain. It seemed fitting.

She didn't stop until they reached the place they went to stargaze. Ned swallowed hard, wondering if she was worried that she hadn't found all the bugs in the cabin. If all their conversations had been recorded...

Well, he supposed, it had either happened or it hadn't. Worrying about it wouldn't change anything. That was what he told his patients, anyway.

Nancy released his hand and crossed her arms. He could see that her lips were trembling faintly, her brows drawn together.

"I don't know how to say this."

Ned took a step toward her, but didn't touch her. "Is something wrong?"

Her gaze fell to his chest, and she sighed. Then she briefly closed her eyes and opened them again.

"I feel differently toward you—than I've ever felt before." She looked up into his eyes. "I think—I think I love you."

He hadn't known it was possible to feel both elated and devastated. Her eyes were gleaming, and he saw such vulnerability in her expression. He wanted so, so much to just take her into his arms.

But it would be a mistake. He couldn't remember the reasons, not anymore. He only knew that he _couldn't_ do this. He had to let her down as easily as he could.

"I think I'm falling in love with you too," he whispered.

The sudden, almost painful joy on her face made his heart hurt. "Really?" she whispered.

He nodded. "But that's not okay," he told her, trying to keep himself calm so she would be calm too. He hadn't meant to say it, not at all, not ever. "So we need to forget about it, all right? I'm your therapist, and you—you aren't yourself right now..."

She swallowed and glanced down, then back up again. "So you think this... it's just because we've been so close and..." She tightened her arms over her belly, and her voice shook a little at the end.

He took a step toward her. When a tear streaked down her cheek, he couldn't help it; he touched her upper arm. "Nan," he whispered.

Then she looked up at him and he wrapped his arms around her, like he had a hundred times before. They held each other tight, and when she touched her forehead to his neck, he released a silent sigh. "As much as I hate to say it, this is wrong," he told her, but he didn't let her go. "It's like taking advantage of you."

"How?" she murmured. "How is it taking advantage if I want this too?"

Ned's breath caught in his chest. God, he wanted to believe her, to just agree with her, so much. "When you're drunk you might do something that you'd never do while sober," he told her. "This is like that."

"But I'm not drunk," she told him. "I've been feeling closer to—to steady. I know what I'm saying. I... I just thought that I was imagining it. That you were just being nice to me."

He shook his head. He wanted so badly to run his fingers through her hair, to nuzzle against her skin, to taste her lips in a kiss. "I'm not," he told her. "I'm not saying that you shouldn't feel this way. But I've been alone here with you and you're vulnerable..."

"Then I would fall in love every time I go through decompression," she replied. "Wouldn't I? And I don't remember much, but I _know_ that this... this has never happened before. It hasn't, Ned. It's _you_. Did you—did you feel this way? When you've done this before?"

He shook his head. "No," he admitted quietly.

"This is my last day," she told him. "This is the last chance I will ever have, to spend with you, to be with you. To know what it's like, to be in love." She moved to look into his face. "Unless I don't take that pill tonight."

He gazed into her eyes and the longer they were this close, the longer he touched her like this, the less important it seemed to release her. "We could find somewhere," he whispered. "Somewhere they couldn't find us."

She smiled at him, but her eyes were still brimming with tears. "And until they found us I would be the happiest person in this world," she whispered. "They would, Ned. George would be alone. Oh my God, you don't know how much I wish..."

He touched her cheek. "Please," he said, and his voice was hoarse. "Nancy..."

He had to let her go. He had to. As tempting as it was, it wouldn't work, and when they parted in the morning... God, his heart would break.

She shook her head. "I love you," she told him. "I love you."

It was too late. Maybe it always had been; maybe his choice to accompany her, the decision he had made days earlier, had started him down this inevitable path.

_I love you._

He leaned down and gently brushed his lips against her cheek, and she released a sigh. He closed his eyes and felt her lips brush his cheek too, and they swayed together.

Then his stomach growled loudly, and she chuckled against his skin. "Guess it is time for breakfast," she murmured. "I'm... I'm sorry. But please don't try to tell me that I don't understand, that I can't know what I want. I do. In this moment, today, I've never been more sure of anything. We have that, today. And if there were a way..." She sniffled. "Please, just let me have this," she whispered, her voice wavering as she begged him.

She searched his eyes, and he waited a beat, then nodded. "Okay," he told her.

He no longer had any idea—if she was capable of making decisions, if he was, if he just wanted so much to believe her that he would disregard anything else. She took his hand and they walked together back to the small house.

Maybe she hadn't found all the bugs. Maybe what she feared was already in motion. But they had already damned themselves, and he didn't care anymore.

 When they poured coffee and sorted through the cereal bars, she kept glancing over at him and smiling, and he couldn't help smiling back at her. They sat at the bar and she glanced at him again.

"Have you been in love before?"

He immediately wanted to change the subject, to deflect back to her. He fought the impulse. "Yeah," he told her. "I have. But every time a person falls in love, it's different. I've never felt this way about anyone else. And you'll never feel this way about anyone else." He touched her hand. "And if you've never had your heart broken, then this... God, Nancy. I don't want to hurt you."

She gave him a small smile, and her eyes were shining again. "Then don't," she whispered. "I don't know... I can't imagine not feeling this way about you. From the first time I woke up in your arms..."

He nodded. "If things had been different," he murmured. "If we had known each other... in real life..."

She chuckled. "I understand," she said, when he shrugged a little. "My life hasn't been real since I was seventeen."

He slid his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him for a moment. "I'm sorry," he told her. "What you've done has been incredible. But you were too young, and I just wish you'd had time to be a kid for a while longer."

"I took care of myself a lot, after Mom died."

"Yeah."

She took a sip of coffee. "If we'd known each other in real life, what?" she murmured.

"Then I'd like to think we would have been really good friends," he told her. "Buried under that incredibly prickly and strong exterior is a really funny, empathetic, determined, sweet woman."

"And we would only have been friends?"

"We would have started as friends," he told her. "We would have gotten to know each other, once you stopped being quite so snarky and defensive."

"And what about you?" she said with a smile. "Mr. I-hate-to-talk-about-myself-ever."

"We'd be friends, not patient and therapist."

"So you _do_ occasionally talk about yourself." He nodded, and she moved to prop her elbow on the counter and look into his face. "So tell me about you."

Her blue-eyed gaze was on his face, and when she blinked and her lashes rose slowly, and she looked relaxed and comfortable—oh, he had to stop thinking about it. Had to.

"I'm nothing special," he told her. "I thought that was why you picked me to—to mug, for your mission. That maybe you thought I was a pushover."

She reached up and gently brushed a fingertip over the tip of his nose. "See? Liar," she said softly. "All your years of being a therapist means you _can't_ talk about yourself anymore."

"I'm nothing special."

"You got on a plane, on faith, and came halfway across the world with me, to be my backup," she said. "Even though you were incredibly scared. You didn't turn me in, even when you could have. You've been so patient and... and I kept telling myself that this is just how you are, how you would be with anyone. That the sincerity and happiness and—and that look you get on your face when you smile at me, when we wake up beside each other, that... that it wasn't for _me_ , not really. But you told me that you didn't sleep in the same bed, before."

He shook his head. "Although if he had needed me to, I would have," Ned commented quietly.

"Oh. So..."

He reached up and gently stroked her cheek. "It's not all in your head," he whispered. "It hasn't been. Oh, Nancy. How could I possibly show you everything in a single day."

She met his eyes again, and he couldn't help thinking it, even as he knew. They could run away together and try to make a life for themselves, in that short interval before they were discovered. Given everything she had said, all the terrible things she had witnessed, the bugs, the manipulation... Ned was in the project but only on the fringes, if all she had said was true. And what if there was more in her head, more that she hadn't told him, that she had managed to forget in time? Already parts of her memory had become hazy, and given how many coping mechanisms he already knew she used, he hadn't wanted to press.

Maybe they could have a week or a month together, but she knew too much—and she had told him too much. He had a terrible feeling that her caution wasn't paranoia, that the despair he saw in her eyes was in no way feigned. If he kept her, he would lose her; if he let her go, at least they would live—but he could feel it, that they would never see each other again.

A day. A day to show her the kind of love they couldn't have exhausted in a lifetime.

"So we would have been friends," she murmured, when he didn't speak again. "And I would have met your family, maybe. Do you have family?"

He nodded. "My parents," he told her. "Both still alive, still married to each other. Very proud of me, almost embarrassingly so, but I'm their only child. I miss them, sometimes. Especially when I think of my mom's cooking."

"No brothers and sisters. Cousins?"

He nodded. "So many cousins," he told her. "Aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents. So, so many. Christmas and Thanksgiving are never boring."

"And they're proud of your career."

He nodded in agreement. "They do wish I had stayed closer to home."

"Where is home?"

"Suburb outside Chicago. They've lived in the same house, on the same street, since before I was born." Then he smiled.

"Mmm?"

"Every summer, and sometimes just after the weather was warm, while school was still in session but on the weekends—we would go up to Fox Lake and stay in a cabin up there. I always loved it. It was far enough away that it felt like a vacation, but not so far that the car ride was miserable. We'd go swimming and grill out and play games. God." He shook his head. "It's that kind of feeling, you know? Just pure simple joy, from when you're a kid and none of the rest of this is in your head. And even now, if I went there, I think I would feel that way again."

The look in her eyes... he had never seen anything more beautiful, or more unconsciously seductive. He reminded himself that at any point, if she seemed to be less than coherent or sober, he needed to do what he could to distract her and stop this.

"Strange," she murmured. "That we both grew up near Chicago... but you're four years older than me, so I guess we wouldn't have seen each other at school. And then, once I would have gone away to school..."

"Even then, once I graduated Emerson I came to the east coast for grad school."

She smiled. "So at about the same time, we were in training," she said.

He nodded. "I would have taken you there," he said. "To the house on Fox Lake. I went there a few times, with girlfriends while I was in college... but there's just something about it. I can just see you there, relaxed and lazy, waking up beside me. And now—" He swallowed hard. "Well, we have today."

Their gazes met and held, until he passed through self-consciousness to contentment again. They had spent so many days in such close contact, but not like this.

A half-smile touched her lips as she straightened, then reached for his hand. He followed her when she guided him to the couch; then she reached up and touched his cheek. "We have today," she agreed softly. "And I've never kissed anyone I felt this way about."

He couldn't take his gaze from her face, as she stood up on her knees beside him. "If you take the pill," he whispered, "in the morning... this will all be gone?"

She nodded, cupping his cheeks, and she gave him a small, sad smile. "I die tonight," she murmured. "And I hate it with all my heart, but..."

She trailed off. He was just opening his mouth to ask her to tell him more when she leaned forward, and then her lips were pressed against his.

He had experienced several first kisses, with women he cared about, with women he felt attracted to. He had never felt this way before.

And maybe it wasn't her first kiss, but it had been a while, and a part of her was still seventeen and eager and vulnerable. She kissed him slowly, and he couldn't fight the urge for long; he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her to him, gently, leaning back as he did. She parted her lips and tilted her head and he returned the kiss, sliding his tongue against hers. She slid her hand into his hair and then she gasped, and he moved his hand up her spine to the nape of her neck.

They didn't part for a long, long time. By then her hair was mussed from the times he had run his fingers through it, and she was pressed against him. She wasn't straddling him, wasn't seated on his lap, but if she had been more experienced, he thought she might have been.

But if she had never truly experienced sexual attraction, it was entirely possible that she just didn't know what to do. And it would be better for both of them if this went no further.

Nancy looked into his eyes, her own heavy-lidded. "Good?" she murmured, and she wasn't fishing for a compliment. She sounded genuinely anxious.

"Yes," he assured her, rubbing his palm over her back. "Very much."

"Do you want—more?"

He kept looking into her eyes as he stroked her cheek. "If you go away with me tonight—Nancy, we could leave right now, we could find somewhere..."

He saw the sadness in her eyes, but she didn't contradict him again. "And then what," she murmured. "Then you would want more?"

"We could make a life together," he told her. "I'm not naive enough to think that just... that this, this time we've spent together, is enough. I know that I feel very strongly about you, that I'm more than just attracted to you, but if we had more than today, if we just had time..."

"But we don't." She glanced down. "Tonight, when we go to bed together..."

"I think it would be a shame for you to forget about the first time you have sex," he told her. "To wake up having lost that experience."

"But if we don't, today, I never will," she told him. "And at least... if it's today, then it will have happened."

"Nan, I can't. I... if we... if this is our last day... it's going to be hard enough."

She searched his eyes for a long, long moment. Then she kissed him lightly and stood. "I need to do something," she told him. "I don't think it will take too long."

"Okay."

She went into the bedroom and Ned let out a long, slow breath, shifting in his seat, closing his eyes. He didn't know what to do. A part of him was definitely interested in having sex with her. Definitely.

But she was a virgin.

He didn't want to reduce it to that, and he knew that she was more familiar with what would happen to her than he was. If she said that when she woke up in the morning, all their time together would be lost to her, he believed it.

She had already lost so much. One day she would be out of the program. If she would just come with him...

Ned shook his head. He could tell that she was unwilling or unable to consider it, that she was devoted to her friend and to the structure the job gave her, however demanding it was. Their relationship, nascent as it was, wouldn't withstand that time apart.

He truly didn't believe that she had only fallen for him out of convenience, but making love to her—that really _would_ be an act of convenience, instead of the beginning of a relationship. She was better than a one-night stand.

He wanted to be with her. God, he wanted so badly to be with her, to have the kind of relationship with her that he had never been able to find with anyone else. He wanted to take her back home with him.

Shit. Now that he had imagined it, he would never be able to get it out of his head, how _right_ it was, to imagine her at Fox Lake with him. To imagine her waiting in his apartment when he came home, in socks and bundled up in one of his sweatshirts, eager to tell him about her day. To share his own day with her, to travel with her, to slide into bed with her. To hold her and discover with her how it would be, to join with her...

He crossed his arms, groaning quietly. This was never supposed to have happened. He should be glad to be leaving, getting back to his life, after successfully taking her through a round of decompression. He did feel proud, and he was proud of her and the progress she had made... but she was about to lose it all.

And he was being selfish. She had her life and he had his... and if they made love, he knew that losing her would no longer only hurt him. It would destroy him. It would leave him desperate enough to consider destroying both their lives, in the hopes of seeing her again.

_If this were your last day on earth, what would you do?_

He would be with her. He would be with her in any way she wanted, any way possible.

When he opened his eyes, they were pricking with tears.

She was seated on the bed, when he followed her into the bedroom. She looked up, wiping away a tear; her eyes were shining. A notebook was open on her lap, and its face was tilted away from him. She was writing something.

"I'm sorry. I just—I guess I need to clear my head."

"I'm almost finished," she told him. "I'll be right there, okay?"

He couldn't help smiling, even though he cleared his throat, trying to take the wavering note out of his voice. He sounded almost gruff instead. "That's my line, isn't it," he murmured. "I'll be right outside. I..."

She glanced up at him and sniffled. "Don't make me cry harder," she warned him. "Once I do I won't stop, okay?"

He held up three fingers. "Scout's honor."

"Scout."

"Yeah." He smiled, then ran his fingers through his hair, and silently gestured toward the front door of the cabin. She nodded, and he walked out.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he ran as fast as he could, pushing himself in a way he hadn't done in a long time, practically since he had been a football star at Emerson. He ran to the top of the hill, knowing that she would be likely to find him there. The wind was whipping now, stirring a hush through the trees.

He wanted to run until he stopped thinking. The way he felt right now, that would be impossible. His bones would crumble first.

He sat down at the same place they had been stargazing and tried to make himself calm down and think rationally, but since the moment he had decided, it seemed that he couldn't. He just thought about how long it had been since he had slept with anyone, and thought of how strange it was that he could feel both so contented and happy with his job and his life, and so deeply lonely.

Oh God, it was more than that, so much more. Just sleeping beside her, feeling her in his arms, feeling her nestle against him... it felt right. She felt right there. Maybe he would have treated anyone the same way, but if he was honest with himself, part of the reason he had been so willing to be so physically intimate with her was his attraction to her.

He stared up at the gray clouds overhead and cursed himself. He had handled everything so, so badly; he understood that. But it was too late. If he believed in such things, he would almost think that she— that a part of him recognized something in her. They were comfortable together, and compatible in a way he hadn't known in a long time.

_You're idealizing her. And she'll never disappoint you. You won't give her the time._

And what was so wrong, he asked himself, with accepting this, just the way she was allowing herself to do. Once she was out and transitioning back to a civilian life, they could get to know each other again. Maybe she would be so desensitized that she wouldn't feel attracted to him anymore; maybe she would find that her feelings for her friend were more intense than she had realized. Maybe they would just be friends.

The thought cheered him up. Even if she had forgotten their time together—

_And if she doesn't make it through? If this truly is the last time..._

He opened his eyes just as the first raindrop fell.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he heard the shuffling that meant she was approaching him. The rain was cold, but he barely felt it.

Her hair was wet, more reddish, as she tucked it behind her ear. She sat down beside him, looking into his face. "Okay," she said. "What did you want to say?"

He tried shading his eyes against the rain, but it was easier to just sit up. She looked so calm, but he could feel the anxiety under it.

It would have been easy to feel like he knew her, after long days listening to the stories of her childhood, after seeing her determined and fearless in the face of certain danger, after wiping away her tears. He knew there were parts of her that he had never seen. And what she loved about him might just be his support and the concern he had shown for her, but that truly had been for _her_ and all that she was.

"I will give you anything you want," he told her, and cupped her cheek, stroking her wet skin with his thumb as he blinked away the rain. "Anything I can, Nancy."

She searched his eyes. "Today?" she whispered.

He took a deep breath. "For the rest of my life," he whispered.

The rain was soaking their clothes, their hair. He saw no sign of discomfort on her face. Instead she reached for him and cupped his cheek the same way he was cupping hers. She stroked his skin and took a long breath through parted lips.

He drew her to him and wrapped his arms around her, and she held him in return, and he closed his eyes. "Show me," she whispered. "Please. Be with me."


	4. Chapter 4

Together they went back to the small cabin; as soon as the door was closed behind them he reached for her, drawing her to him again. She lifted her face for a kiss, shivering as he slid his hands under her shirt, cupping her sides.

It was wrong. It was wrong, to do this, to accept her instead of rejecting her—

Oh, how could this be wrong, when it felt like this. When her eyes were such a beautiful clear blue, when her desire and her longing were clear, when he saw no hesitance or disorientation in her. He couldn't hurt her, and it would hurt her so much to release her and reject her right now.

Her sides were warm, damp from the rain, and her lips parted under his as she released a soft anticipating sigh. His palm settled against the small of her back as he cupped her cheek, tilting his head and kissing her. Their kiss was slow, exploring and deep, and he brushed his fingertips in light strokes against her spine.

She shuddered when they parted. "Am I supposed to—to want... to take my clothes off?"

"There is no 'supposed to,'" he told her. "Do you?"

She nodded. "I can pretend it's because they're wet, but I... I want to feel your hands all over me..."

He reached down and caught the hem of her shirt in his hands, and she lifted her arms, gazing up into his face. He pulled her shirt off, and then he picked her up, so their faces were level.

She wrapped her arms around him, pressed tight against him, as he took them the few steps to the bedroom. "What were you doing?" he murmured, as he shouldered the door closed behind them. The notebook was closed, laying on the floor beside the bed.

She shook her head. "Not now," she told him.

"I thought maybe... you were upset with me."

She shook her head. "No," she murmured, and when he placed her on the bed, she began to toe out of her shoes. "I'm not. I wasn't. It's just... there's so little time..."

He nodded, sitting down beside her. "Okay."

She smiled at him. "Is this how it is?" she murmured. "Is this how it's supposed to be? Or... does it not matter, because this is what we have?"

"This is what we have," he told her. "And Nan, if you ask me to... this is the beginning of what we can have. I mean that. Whether it's now, or after..."

Her eyes were gleaming when she cupped his cheek again. "I wish I'd known you," she whispered. "I wish I'd had someone in my life, like you, before. I wish so many things. Today is all I can promise you, Ned, but I promise you every second of it."

Then she reached down, taking off her bra. He could see the red marks the elastic had left on her skin, and bruises too, healed cuts and scars. She took off her pants and he winced at the dull yellow ring of bruising around the wound on her upper thigh. The rainwater left her reddish-gold hair damp and drying in soft waves around her face.

She moved back on the bed without taking her underwear off, and he didn't mind. He reached for the collar of his shirt, and raised his eyebrows at her; she nodded, and he tugged it up over his head, toeing off his shoes as he reached for his own pants.

They listened to the rain tap against the roof as he moved toward her. He couldn't help it; when he saw the happiness in her expression, the glow in her eyes as she watched him, he felt warm and pleased. They had been together in this bed so many nights, and to see her this way, one leg drawn up, reaching for him...

She met his kiss eagerly as he laid down beside her, sliding one arm around her shoulders as he used the other to stroke down her spine and hip. She moved with him, pressing her bare breasts against his chest, her lips parted and her tongue sliding against his. He sighed in contentment when they eventually moved so he was on his back, and she was sprawled over him, still kissing him.

"Mmm. I like kissing you too," he murmured, when she broke it and moved back a little.

She grinned, and her bright eyes crinkled at the corners, and he stroked his hand over her tousled damp hair. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yeah," he told her. He rubbed his hand down her spine, over the small of her back. "But that's all right."

Her gaze fell to his lips, then rose to meet his again. "Have you thought about it like I have?"

"I couldn't let myself," he told her. "Tonight... if you're gone, you're gone. But I swear to you that for the rest of my life, I'll remember this. And I'll never forget you, or what we've been to each other, or how it felt to find my home."

He saw her eyes suddenly gleam with new tears. "Yeah," she whispered. "That's what it is. I thought it was meant to be some huge, grand passion—but it's just like coming home, isn't it."

"It's never been like this for me."

"And you are the only man I will ever love," she told him, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Tell me it will be okay."

"It will," he lied, and gently nipped at her before she kissed him again, tracing his fingertips over her spine and her shoulder blades.

He did what she had asked, what she wanted. He stroked her smooth skin, lacing his fingers between hers when they moved together, and he let her control everything they did. When she guided him to roll onto his side, he smiled against their kiss when she stroked her palm down his back, too. Then her fingertips dipped beneath the elastic of his underwear, and he released a silent groan, closing his eyes.

He was both relieved and disappointed when her stomach growled, and she broke their kiss with a sigh. "Guess it's my turn to interrupt," she murmured. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her gently one more time. "Come on. Let's have lunch. We still have time."

They did have time. But he could feel every second as it passed.

They dressed, leaving their damp clothes behind to dry, and he noticed almost dispassionately when they started making lunch together that his fingers were shaking slightly. They stayed close to each other, each afraid to leave the halo of the other's warmth, afraid to waste any of their time together.

She carried her plate to the couch and took a seat, and he settled beside her. "So you were a scout."

"For a long time. It... it was a lot of fun. Made me not feel quite so lonely."

She nodded. "And when you go home, will you be lonely?"

Her voice wavered a little on the word "home," and Ned touched her hand. "I have my work and my friends," he said. "My cat."

"You strike me as more of a dog person," she told him. "I mean, it's fine..."

He chuckled. "I work a lot of long hours," he told her. "I'd feel bad for a dog, waiting at home all day for me. Quincy's not so bad."

"Quincy," she repeated with a small smile.

"Did you have any pets growing up?"

"I did fall in love with a terrier named Togo, but he wasn't mine. I found him wandering around, and he was a good companion, but Dad didn't want me to have a dog, and besides, his owners showed up to claim him." She sighed. "I had a fluffy white cat named Snowball for a while, too. It just... it never felt like anything lasted all that long. But George and I have been friends for a long time."

"I can tell how much you care about her."

"She's the closest thing to a sister I've ever had." Nancy shook her head. "She's just always had my back, and I've always had hers. I wish we'd had some more time... I wish you two had been able to meet, after the mission. I think she would really like you. She's a lot like you; she doesn't like talking about herself either."

Ned chuckled. "Don't worry, it's not just you. I've never liked talking about myself. But I'm sure I'd like her, if she's your friend."

Nancy smiled. "What's your favorite thing to do on a date?"

"Depends on the girl," Ned told her. "Usually not a movie, though. No opportunity to talk."

"You mean for _her_ to talk," Nancy told him. "And for you to listen."

"Of course," he teased her. "Severn Run, or out by the harbor. Bowling's good."

She searched his eyes. "Last time I went on a date it was to the skating rink."

"Another excellent venue," he replied with a grin. "But I doubt that. I see you... I see you at the school dance, the prettiest girl in the whole room, the center of attention."

She shook her head, blushing a little. She reached forward and put her empty plate on the coffee table in front of them, and he did the same. "Definitely not the prettiest girl there," she told him, brushing a lock of her hair from her cheek. "And I hated being the center of attention."

"Do you like to dance, though?"

She nodded, and then her gaze met his and he stopped breathing for a second. "I do," she murmured. "With someone who knows how."

"Then, with you, it would be dancing," he decided. "Holding you close. Loud music, so you drew me down and spoke into my ear when we needed to talk. And no matter where we went, you would be the most beautiful woman in the room. Hands down."

The smile that lit her face almost broke his heart. "Why is it that the best things in the world are so short," she whispered. "And the worst are so long that it hurts. Why do we only have a day together, when I'd give so much..."

He shook his head. "Tonight," he told her. "I have friends. We could just try..."

She reached up and cupped his cheek, gently stroking it with her thumb. "I want you to go home," she told him. "I want you to be happy and I want you to have an amazing life."

"With you beside me, it will be. But if you don't feel that way..."

She shook her head, moving closer to him as she searched his eyes. "This is love, for me," she whispered. "I would rip my heart in half to keep you safe, even if it meant never seeing you again. Even though it means that I will never see you again."

He shook his head. "It doesn't have to be like this."

She sniffled and kissed him, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. "I was writing a letter to you," she told him. "I don't want you to read it until you're back home and safe. Don't—don't let them see it, okay?"

He nodded. "Okay. But, Nan..."

She rested her forehead against his and sniffled. "Remember me," she whispered. "No one else ever will. Not even me. Please remember me."

He had to swallow the lump in his throat to speak again. "Always," he whispered. "I always will."

Before they had even made it into the bedroom again, she had stripped off her shirt, and her wavy hair was almost dry. The rain was sounding harder on the roof.

He didn't know how to say it, because she wasn't willing. They didn't have enough time. They would never have enough time. And he was the only one who would remember her.

He had drugs that would knock her out for half a day. He could find a way to get her home, to get her somewhere safe. He didn't have to lose her.

And she would come to her senses angry and she would never forgive him, for going against her wishes.

And so he took her to bed and she drew his shirt up, her lips pressed to his, her body trembling faintly. This time, once she had stripped off her pants, she kept going, and Ned did too. They moved into bed together naked, twined around each other, and he relished the feel of her smooth skin against his. One minute she was running her fingers through his hair, pressing against him, nuzzling against his neck, her legs still tight together; the next she was arrested by the feel of his hand moving against the small of her back, and he could feel her breath against his adam's apple. He didn't move over her. Today was for her, all of it was for her, and he wanted to follow her lead still.

He moved onto his back and she made a quiet inquisitive noise as she touched his erection. "This is...?"

"Yeah," he murmured, and she leaned down to kiss his lips as she explored him with her fingers. "Shit..."

"Hmm?"

"Feels really good," he told her. "But I want you to feel good too."

She moved to look down into his eyes, and she smiled. "I've never been with anyone this way," she told him. "And you... you seem to just be letting me do whatever, and I don't know what to do..."

He reached up and cupped her cheek with his palm. "If you want to, straddle me," he told her softly.

She took a deep breath and moved over him, on her knees, and her blue eyes were wide as she looked down at him. "Now what?" she whispered.

He slid his hand down from the small of her back and touched her ass, then guided her down until they were in contact. She glanced down, adjusting her position over him, then looked back up into his face.

"Now move," he murmured, and gently began to guide her hips.

It was amazing, and he was in awe of it. He watched her face, the way her expression changed, from faint puzzlement to surprise as she felt pleasure and desire. She hadn't felt sexual desire, not like this, and she was discovering it with him. After a few tentative strokes, she leaned down again, and he kissed her eagerly. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his other hand resting on her back again, rubbing against her spine as she moved against him.

"It feels so good," she moaned, and then she moved to prop up her weight and drag the slick inner folds of her sex against his erection more firmly, and Ned arched a little under her. "Okay?"

She looked down at him, and he nodded. "Yes, very much," he murmured. "Just keep doing that, Nan. As much as you want."

"I feel wet..."

"Mmm-hmm. You're aroused. It feels really good."

"Yeah..."

"You've never been like this before." He searched her face, and her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed. "You've never come before."

"I don't..."

She was kissing him again, almost lazily, when he moved his hand between them and found her clit with his thumb. She had been glancing the button of flesh against him with her strokes, but when he touched it directly, she shuddered immediately. "Ned," she whimpered.

"Good?"

"Sharp," she whimpered, her brow creasing, and she panted as she rubbed against him again. "Ohhhh..."

"Sharp?"

"Mmmmm," she groaned. He felt her hips tremble when he stroked it again. She nipped at him, and her nipples dragged against his chest on her next stroke. "Oh _God_..."

"Yes," he murmured. "Just let yourself feel it, it's all right. Just move against me like it feels good."

She panted again, sobbing quietly when he stroked her again. "Does it—feel like this—for you?"

"It's okay," he murmured. "This is for you, honey."

She chuckled. "Honey," she gasped, when he stroked her again. "Does it—does it break?"

He realized what she meant. "When you come," he told her. "It's all right."

She moved against him with more rapid, harder strokes of her hips, shifting to vary the angle; she never made any attempt to mount him, and he didn't care. He kissed her when she pressed her lips against his. He shivered when she moaned, when she sobbed, but it was in pleasure for once.

Then she gasped loudly, and he smiled. She cried out his name and he stroked her more rapidly, until she was shaking, almost writhing. "I love you," she sobbed against his skin. "Oh my _God_..."

"I love you too," he told her.

It took her so, so long to come, and for her every sensation was new and incredible. She savored all of it; she was overwhelmed by all of it, and she screamed into his shoulder, her hips jerking, when she reached her orgasm. He closed his eyes as she collapsed to him, her body pressed tight against his, and she trembled faintly, gasping for breath.

Her arousal had left his erection slick and warm, and she was still pressed against him. He stroked her back, his fingertips drifting up and down her spine. "There," he murmured. "Shh."

"Mmm," she moaned. "Oh, Ned."

He kissed the crown of her head, then wrapped her in his arms. He didn't know how he hadn't lost his mind, or control of himself, but he hadn't wanted to scare her. "Okay?"

"Yeah." She sniffled and shifted on top of him. "I just want to lay here like this."

He smiled. "Me too," he murmured.

His heart slowed as they listened to the rain pour down on the roof, and he moved so he could look at her. She rolled onto her side, pulling him with her, her leg bent and draped over his hip. Then she cuddled against him, both of them still naked.

He kissed her forehead, her temple, her cheekbone. He kissed the tip of her nose, and when his lips brushed against hers, she parted them, wrapping her arms around him too.

He covered her in kisses, nuzzled against her, and her giggles when he nuzzled against and gently fondled her breasts made him smile. She sounded so unabashedly happy, so unselfconscious, and he stroked her hip as he kissed his way back up. He nuzzled against her neck, then kissed her lips.

"So this is how it is," she whispered. "To be in love."

He nodded. "All the best parts and none of the worst," he told her, and stroked her cheek as he gazed into her eyes. "This will always be perfect because we'll never be tired of each other, never fight, never feel anything less. But sometimes the slow, relaxed parts are the best. Just hanging out together on the couch and watching TV. Making dinner together. Going to the movies."

She searched his eyes, and her lips trembled faintly. "You'll find someone, won't you."

"Maybe," he told her, once he found his voice again. Her voice had sounded so defeated, and her eyes were shining. "But I will never love anyone else the way I love you."

He settled against her, on top of her, and she twined herself around him, trusting and unafraid. He kissed her, long and deep and claiming, and she ran her fingers through his hair and angled her hips under his.

Sometimes, distantly, he saw himself from outside, saw what they were doing from outside, and it _hurt_. It hurt to see them as though it had already happened. It hurt to _feel_ himself trying to memorize all of it, instead of letting himself enjoy it—and instead of realizing how much guilt and pain he would feel later. He had stopped thinking about the rules. He had never seen her so lucid, so clear, so open with him.

She was unsure, cautious, but he could see how passionate she would have been as his lover, once she was more confident and sure of herself. Oh God, if he could have, he would have shown her everything.

But he couldn't hurt her. He guided her hand down between his legs and together they stroked him, and when he came it was with his lips against hers, her palm slick with their arousal. Then he kissed her neck, slowly, relaxing against her.

"I love you," she sighed.

"I love you too," he told her. "Mmm. Thanks, honey."

He could hear the grin in her voice. "You did most of the work."

"Give yourself some credit. You were great." He moved back to look into her eyes, and he felt it again, the impulse to capture this moment instead of living it. "You are great."

"You said making dinner together. We can do that." She looked almost pleading.

He nodded. "We will," he promised. "Usually I'd say that about an hour after dinner..."

She searched his eyes and realized what he wasn't saying. "Okay," she said, and her voice was barely a whisper.

"You know you don't have to," he murmured. "You understand that, don't you? These aren't just words. It isn't just bravado. Okay?"

She blinked and her eyes were shining again. "It isn't because I don't want to be with you," she told him. "Please believe me. I want to be with you more than almost anything."

But she didn't elaborate, and Ned studied her face. He believed her. From the moment she had opened her eyes and her decompression had been underway, he had believed everything she had told him.

He rolled onto his side and reached for a few tissues; then he cleaned them up and cuddled with her again.

_Almost anything._

_I'd give you anything. I'd give you all of me, Nan. All of me._

"We haven't had sex," she whispered. "Have we."

"No," he told her. "I can't. It would probably hurt you, and I can't... not if that would be the last..."

She kissed his chest. "It was good," she told him. "It was so good. I loved all of it. I wish it would feel like that."

"It would have. It can." He kissed the crown of her head. "I would give you everything. No matter what, even if we... I will always, always be here for you. And I will always love you."

She drew in a shivering breath and he heard her sob quietly. "Please," she whispered, and her voice cracked. "Please..."

Then she tipped her head back and Ned ducked down and they kissed hard, clinging to each other, his knee between her legs. He could offer her nothing else, but the last thing he would offer her... oh, that would decide it all, and it would break his heart to do it.

She ran her fingers through his hair, cupped his cheek, met his kisses eagerly. He felt her shiver in anticipation when he moved his hand between her legs, but instead of just stroking his thumb against her clit, he slid his fingertips down the slick lips of her sex, down to the hollow between her legs. She gasped against his kiss, whimpering when he first brushed against her clit. Then she broke off, panting quietly. "What," she whispered, and he felt her tense when he barely touched her opening.

"This is what it feels like," he told her, although he didn't penetrate her, not yet. "To have sex. Do you want me to...?"

"Okay," she whispered, and she didn't resist when he shifted their positions so she had her knee slung over his hips, when he gently kissed her as he traced the slick lips of her sex again.

She tensed again, and Ned hadn't had sex with someone so inexperienced in a long, long time. He paused, but she returned his kiss, stroking his cheek and then his upper arm. "Okay," she murmured again, her breath warm against his skin.

He took it slow, starting with one finger, and he felt her lashes flutter down as she focused on what he was doing. He shifted his weight so he could gently fondle her breast too, and she shifted with him, panting. "Ned," she whimpered. "Hurt?"

"No, no," he murmured, keeping his strokes gentle. "If it does, tell me and we'll stop, all right?"

"Okay."

He let her become accustomed to the stroke of his finger inside her, gently working it all the way in, and once he was as far inside her as he could be, she seemed to relax a little. "It feels nice," she murmured. "Ohhh..."

"Mmm-hmm." She arched as he kept stroking her clit, keeping his finger inside her. When she had come for the first time, oh, he had wanted to be able to feel it. "More?"

"Yes," she sighed, stroking her hand over his shoulder blades. She kept moving restlessly, her lips parted, her lashes low. "Yessss..."

He worked a second finger inside her, then a third. By then she was flushed and moaning, her hips moving to meet his strokes. Her nipples were hard-tipped, and he heard her suck in a surprised breath when he ducked down and pulled one into his mouth.

"Shit," she gasped. " _Ned_..."

She was so wet, and of course she would be less than comfortable with it at first, but now... she was so slick and tight, moving with him, and he loved the way she gasped, how surprised and delighted she was with what he was doing with her. He was glad it wasn't hurting her, but he still couldn't bring himself to go any further. He just wanted her to come. He just wanted to be able to feel it.

And she rolled onto her back, pulling him with her, encouraging him to pin her down and control their playing. She opened her legs wide and stroked his back, the back of his neck, as he moved on top of her. She moaned his name and he shivered.

"Oh _yes..._ "

"I love you," he told her, and she shuddered when his breath touched her ear. "I love all of you, Nan. I love you so much."

"I love you," she whispered, and then he felt her strain under him, arching as her arousal began to peak, as she began to pant and sob.

"Come," he murmured. "Like you did before, honey, just let go..."

She clung to him, tipping her head back. His thumb danced against her clit and she jerked with every brush. Her sobs turned into a high whine, and when he looked down at her, the pale column of her throat was exposed. He kept three fingers inside her, moving them only in slow steady thrusts, and then she gasped loudly and cried out his name.

"Yeah," he murmured, and he closed his eyes when he felt her inner flesh tighten around his fingers. "Just like that."

She sobbed, and he felt her fingernails drag against his back. "Oh my God oh my God ohhhhh oh my _God!_ "

Once she had finally begun to come down, once she was only shaking with the aftershocks, he lowered himself to her, feeling her chest rise and fall rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. He rolled onto his side and she nestled against him, her breath warm against his chest. "Oh," she whispered.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her until she wasn't shaking anymore. His eyes were closed, and he breathed in the familiar scent of her hair.

He had just never been _aware_ of it, not like this. He had been through breakups, he had gradually drifted away from people and out of relationships, but he had never been through anything so stark or so painful. This version of her, if she so chose, would die in his arms tonight. All that he felt and loved would sleep in her.

They made dinner together and she was clearly on the point of tears the entire time; then she looked into his own eyes and saw he was, too. He wanted to lighten the mood, to see her smile and hear her laugh one more time, but he couldn't bring himself to joke with her or tease her. When he cupped her cheek, the sad smile she gave him broke his heart again.

An hour. They only had an hour left together.

They sat down on the couch to eat in silence. The storm had passed, and Ned found himself hoping that the ground wasn't wet enough to keep them from leaving. They could leave; they could wait until the sun set and go as far and as fast as they could. But she had no faith, no belief that they would make it. Otherwise, if she felt the same way he did, she would be hopeful right now, not depressed.

She put her plate down and he reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. She glanced over at him, her eyebrows rising slightly. "Did you want to...?"

He shook his head. He wanted to be close to her, but he didn't want to spend the rest of their time together in bed.

Her face fell. It meant not talking. It meant ignoring this for as long as they could, but they didn't have much time left.

So he reached for her and drew her into his arms and held her the same way he had when she had first started this. She wrapped herself around him and pressed her face against his neck, and he stroked her back.

"It's not that I don't want to," she whispered. "I want to. You have no idea."

"Then why," he murmured, still stroking her back. "Why does this have to end..."

She sniffled. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Ned, I'm so sorry. I..."

She trailed off and he kissed her forehead. "But you want to," he murmured, and rubbed her shoulder blades. "Will you come back to me?"

"If I can. I promise you that I will, if I can." She sniffled again.

But it was a promise she made him in a dream, a dream that would vanish when she opened her eyes in the morning. He didn't know enough about how it worked to know if she could even lock this away into her subconscious—or if it would hurt her, if she did.

The more he let himself believe, the more it would hurt later. He would recover more quickly if he didn't cling to this hope.

He would never recover from this.

And it would be better for her, if she took that pill, to wake up without any memory of this whatsoever, without dealing with the loss of her first love. Without the distraction, the warmth they would feel when remembering each other, the ache of leaving.

He didn't know how it would be to remember something that, for her, was nothing more substantial than a dream.

She brushed her lips against his adam's apple, then moved back to look into his eyes. "You'll be okay," she told him, but she sounded a little uncertain. "You will."

He nodded slightly. "Eventually," he murmured, and stroked his palm over her hair. "But I won't regret it. It was worth it."

She nodded, searching his eyes before she moved back. He began to rise when she did, but she shook her head. "I'll be right back."

She returned with a folded piece of paper. He had to smile when he saw it; it was folded in an intricate flat design, the way girls had used when passing notes at school. "Couldn't find an envelope," she said, with a little smile. "Took a while for me to get it right, but I did. This is for you."

He took it when she offered it, but she touched his hand and moved back onto his lap. "Don't open it," she told him. "Not yet. You'll... you'll know when. Okay?"

He nodded, although the lump in his throat and the tears pooling in her eyes told him what she hadn't. She meant for him to open it once he found out she was dead, when she would no longer exist to pass along the message inside. "All right," he tried to say, but he could only mouthe the words. No sound came out.

Her lips trembled when she smiled. "Thank you," she whispered. "For giving me today. For giving me this."

He stroked her cheek again. "Thank you for giving me this," he murmured. "I wish I could come with you."

She shook her head and wiped her tears as she sniffled. "No," she told him. "No, you don't. And I wouldn't want you there. I want you at home, safe and sound. I don't want you—to be like me. To be dead inside."

Ned shook his head. "You aren't," he told her, wiping her tears away too. "And when you come home, we can be like this again. Just without feeling like you're drunk and out of control. We'll figure it out. If you can't do it right now, that's okay. If you need some time, you'll have time. Just please come back to me. Whatever you need, Nancy. Even if you don't feel this way anymore, even if you can't. All right?"

She searched his eyes. "I will," she whispered, and sniffled again.

All too soon, it was time. He held her tight before he went to the small bedroom and pulled out the biometric case, and pressed his thumb against it.

He saw a sheet of paper folded small inside, one that she had to have put there. _Keep this for me._

He shook his head and didn't open it. God, how he wanted to. But he had violated protocol; he hadn't wiped his thumbprint away. She had figured out how to break into it.

He couldn't help but be impressed by her. Even now, held back by her decompression, she was still insanely smart.

He plucked out the pill, and it took all his strength. He just wanted to put it back in the case, to make her decision for her. She was in pain, and he could help.

But it was her choice.

He took the pill into the other room and poured a glass of water and sat down beside her, with his fingers still closed into a fist. "As your physician," he said, and shook his head. "If you take this pill, you are re-enlisting. It will likely take full effect in six to eight hours. Take it with a full glass of water."

She nodded and wiped tears from her wet cheeks. "I know," she whispered.

He didn't open his fingers. "If you tell me to put it back, I will," he whispered.

_Please. Please._

She touched his hand and gently opened his fingers, until he saw the pill in his palm. "I'm glad it was you," she whispered. "I'm glad."

Then she steeled herself, straightening her shoulders, and took the pill. She took the glass of water and drank almost all of it, in long draughts. It was so quick, and Ned's heart hurt when he looked at her.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, another pair of tears streaked down her cheeks.

"Dance with me," she whispered.

He wiped his face and stood, crossing to the small, cheap radio. It took him a few tries to find a station playing something appropriate. Then he reached for her hand. She took a breath and reached for his hand and stood too, and moved into his arms.

He had seen it before. Soon, so soon, she would lose consciousness. When she woke, it would be done. It had already begun.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and he wrapped his arms around her waist. She swayed with him, resting her head against his shoulder, and he rested his cheek gently against the crown of her head.

"I'll never forget you," he whispered, and she sniffled. "Never. And you'll come back to me, and we'll be together again. It can't end like this. This can't be all we'll ever have."

"I want to believe that," she whispered. "God, so much. I love you, I love you, I love you..."

She repeated it to herself, as though she could make herself remember what would soon fade. He stroked her hair, kissed her temple and her cheek, as they swayed together to a slow tune, to words that he didn't understand. He heard her whispering to herself, and he could feel it when the drug's influence finally reached her, when it stole over her, when she began to weaken. Her steps began to falter, and she sobbed once.

He adjusted his hold on her, moving so he was supporting all of her weight. She released a sigh, her head on his shoulder. "Come back to me, Nan. Please come back to me, safe and whole. Please."

Once he knew that she had passed out, he slowly carried her to the bed and tucked her under the covers for the last time. He made sure the small house was secure, then moved into the bed beside her, reaching for her. In her sleep she nestled against his side, and he wrapped his arm around her.

"Shh," he whispered into the stillness. "Shh. Just come back to me. Please."

He stayed awake for what felt like hours, holding her, stroking her hair. When he closed his eyes, they wouldn't stay shut for long. He just couldn't let go of his last few hours with her.

When he woke, he was alone in the bed. She was seated on the lower bunk in the other bed, fully dressed, a bag beside her. No trace of tears were visible on her face, and her expression was the same mask he had seen there a week and a half earlier. She looked like a stranger, when she glanced up from her cell phone.

"Extraction at ten-hundred."

He couldn't find his voice for a moment. "Okay," he managed. "How—How are you feeling?"

Her gaze was quick, almost uninterested. "Fine," she replied, and rose, lifting her bag. She walked out and into the front of the cabin without another word.

Ned took a long breath and swallowed the lump in his throat. He had known she would be like this—but he hadn't wanted to believe it.

She was gone. The body he had loved, had felt moving against and with his—that was there, but she was gone.

It hurt more than he had imagined.

He showered, and saw that she had tidied up the place when he emerged. He packed up his clothes, including the shirt he had worn to bed the night before, which still smelled like her; he packed the biometric case, the media they had used to record the stories of her history, the notes she had given him. The latter, he managed to hide; he had a feeling that it would mysteriously vanish otherwise. When they were finished, everything looked neat as a pin. She had even, he noted with some faint amusement, restored the bugs to their previous locations.

He had fallen in love with Nancy. She was Andrea again. She was a stranger, and her focus was only on the task at hand, the next mission. Maybe deep inside she was even looking forward to seeing George again.

He held it together. She would neither understand nor sympathize with his loss, and she didn't seem comfortable with their silence as they headed to the extraction site. Instead, she seemed like a significant part of her attention, her _self_ , was already gone. He left her to her recentering, and cast only the briefest glances in her direction.

But when they were approaching the site, he couldn't help it. "Nancy," he said quietly. "Once you're out... please come find me. I'd like to help you reintegrate."

He had to keep his voice low; he knew it would crack otherwise, and he didn't want to betray anything, not when other people might be watching or listening. She didn't respond, though.

And he wanted her to. God, he just wanted to hear her laugh one more time. He just wanted to hold her one more time. But she was already gone.

She slid out of the passenger seat once he brought the truck to a stop, and pulled the strap of her bag up over her shoulder. She slammed the door behind her, and he watched her stride away without looking back.

_I belong to ghosts._ She had told him with such pain in her eyes.

_And now, so do I,_ he thought. He closed his eyes for a long moment, gathering the strength to follow her to the extraction, to leave for home—but his home was going with her, with a person who had died in his arms the night before. His home was gone. She was gone.

He took a deep breath and followed.


	5. Chapter 5

Five months after his return, Ned was out of the program.

It wasn't his choice. He knew his best chance of finding her again, of hearing any news of her, was being part of the program. Agents grilled him on his return about all of it: the circumstances under which she had approached him, whether she had threatened him, what he had stolen from Linkhaven, what he had done during her rogue mission. The sabotaged listening devices. Especially, _especially_ , what she had told him during decompression.

He had used the flight home to "complete" his log. Most of it had been bullshit. He couldn't trust any of them anymore, and if he turned over the media, he knew it would be out of his reach forever, scrutinized, but never of any use to her again. And he had made it for her. Only her.

Three times that he knew of, they searched his apartment. He wasn't as good as she was at finding listening devices or surveillance equipment, and if they searched long enough, they would find all of it: the media he had used to record her history, the two notes she had given him, all of it.

He couldn't trust any of them. He had to get away; he knew they could find him, but if he left, if he dropped off their radar, maybe it would stop. They would move on to other problems. He wasn't that much of a problem. He didn't know enough about her Pho Tet missions to leak information about them—and besides, she had talked about them when they were out of the cabin. He hoped and prayed that was enough.

She knew too much. She had been through too much.

So he did the best he could. He told part of the truth; he admitted that she had been disturbed by some of her past missions, but said that she hadn't been specific about what had happened. He reported that she had taken the pill to reenlist without force, coercion, or misgivings. He left the media and the notes in their hiding place after the first time he knew that his apartment had been broken into, since they could be watching him.

Hank was the one who told him he was out of the program, and Hank seemed genuinely sorry about it. They met to talk about it over lunch, and Hank shook his head. "When I was recruited into it, someone else was in charge," he told Ned quietly. "Someone who... well, who didn't run it like this. I don't know what's going on, but I think you should probably be glad that you were pushed out when you were. Maybe."

"I might have been," Ned told him. "If I didn't know what they're sending back. Or what they _aren't._ "

He didn't move too far, in that first year. He wanted to keep in touch with Estigan and with some of the other former members of the program, and he wanted to be around when she needed him. He watched the news hoping for a glimpse of her, and knowing that whenever the news cameras had arrived, they were already too late to catch her. He waited for a sign, for anything: for a blank postcard, a mysterious email, a cryptic letter. Then, one night as he laid awake in bed, idly stroking Quincy's head, he realized that if they wanted to, they had the perfect way to play him.

That didn't stop his longing, though. It didn't end his loneliness, and he still missed her just as intently. He cursed himself for giving her the final pill, while knowing that she would have taken it anyway. He cursed himself for not just drugging her and taking her away from all of it... but it was done, and all his wishes and curses could do nothing for him.

Eighteen months later, he saw a listing for a therapist position in another state, and he thought about it long and hard. He knew they were probably still keeping an eye on him, and the city wasn't so terribly far away. It was closer to his parents, who missed him a lot, even though they did their best not to give him a guilt trip about settling so far away. It was on the lake, and it was near Chicago, near some of the friends he'd made at Emerson. It was near what had been her home, so long ago.

He'd told patients so many times not to think of choices as steps backward, but as steps. A decision was a step. Moving closer to his parents was a step. No longer being a part of the program was a step.

Losing her had been a step, and he had promised her he wouldn't regret it. And he didn't. He just wanted her back.

He had been working in the counseling center for a month when he received a call from a number he didn't recognize. By the time he saw it, he had missed it, and he waited impatiently for a break he could use to return it, telling himself the whole time that it wasn't her, there was no way it was her, _maybe_ it was her. Maybe.

The person on the other end sounded half-asleep and irritated, and definitely not at all like Nancy. "This Nickerson?"

"Yeah," Ned replied. "I'm returning a call?"

He heard a muffled bellow for Stanley, then footsteps. The low, tinny static of a nearby television set carried over.

"Nickerson?"

"Stanley?"

"Yeah. Listen, I know you mentioned—a woman? Reddish-blonde hair, blue eyes? Andrea."

"Yeah." Ned was so excited that he felt sick. "Do you have any news about her?"

"I was told that she was really close to someone on her team." _Was._ Ned almost didn't catch it. "That when she lost her, she went a little crazy for a while. Her next time out..." Stanley made a _fwsht_ sound.

"'Lost her'?"

"Andrea's friend. She was—well, something went bad. She didn't make it out. Andrea didn't take it well." Stanley's voice was a little more gentle, like he was explaining things to a child. "From what I hear, next time out, Andrea wasn't careful enough. Maybe intentionally."

"Is she..."

"Gone? Yeah. From what I hear." Stanley took a breath, then murmured, "And you should be glad."

"Glad?" Ned could hardly force the word out. He felt so heavy. He felt such an awful pressure in his chest. She was gone.

"Yeah. At least it was probably quick. And there are worse things than dying."


	6. Chapter 6

On the last night of her life, she stood at the edge of the frozen lake and looked down.

She would have to find a way beneath the ice.

The thought didn't hurt. She didn't feel anything anymore. The night was so dark and cold; the wind would have hurt her eyes, if she had been able to feel pain. In the distance, lights in office buildings, streetlamps, the sweep of headlights punctuated the dark, reflecting off the blue-white glare of the snow. She didn't see it. She didn't feel herself shiver, the heels of her chapped bare hands tucked into the cuffs of her shirt, the wind bleeding through the seams of her loose jeans, her cheeks reddened by it. She didn't feel the ache of her long-empty stomach. She only saw the thick sheet of ice at the edge of the lake, ten feet down from the railing where she stood.

If she made it beneath that barrier, she would only need to breathe in. Then it would be done.

She had considered several ways, while she had been in the back of her car. It would take money or theft for pills to do it—and something in her shriveled at that idea. No pills.

( _No more pills._ )

A razor was easy but she could live, unless she went in the middle of nowhere, and her car had barely made it here. She didn't know where her coat was. She wasn't sure where anything was, what day it was. She didn't know _anything._

She just couldn't feel anything anymore, and what she did feel was only pain. Just pain.

For the past year, nothing had been okay, but she had been surviving. Eighteen months earlier, she had opened her eyes for what felt like the first time in a long long time, in a pale-green hospital room that smelled like mustiness and antiseptic and old sheets. Her arm had been wrapped in a cast. She had felt such aching, bone-deep misery at her injuries that she had wanted to die then, too.

"Andrea..." That was the first word she had heard, in the first voice, coming from the first calm smile. A name she hadn't been able to remember.

The doctor explained that she had been in a horrific car accident. Her friend had been driving, and hadn't survived. The trauma of the crash had left her with several injuries, including some to her brain, and they had impacted her memories. She couldn't remember much from before the accident, just bits and pieces, people's faces—but their names were gone. She felt like she had been asleep for a long, long time. She felt like she had been beaten within an inch of her life, as she watched already-livid bruises fade, as she slowly began to recover. She had found, in her battered purse, enough information to piece together a life she could no longer remember: bank accounts, an apartment near Baltimore, a five-year-old battered hatchback, all in the name Andrea Warren. Her name.

The doctor had prescribed pills. She had been scheduled for talking therapy three times a week, then two, then one. 

But she hadn't been able to stay around people. She felt like an open wound; she felt jumpy, anxious, like she was on a hair trigger and anything could set her off. She managed to find a job in computer repair at a nearby big-box store, the kind of job where she could just consult a ticket, fix a computer, and speak to absolutely no one during her shift. Once she ignored her coworkers long enough, they seemed to get it. She felt adrift and lonely, but she didn't know what to do. She felt like she was going through the motions, that people would figure it out.

Life felt impossible.

Some mornings she woke feeling like she was somewhere up high, gripping the only thing keeping her from falling with both hands. Then she was down to her fingertips. Then her fingernails.

Six months before the last day of her life, her therapist's office had closed and the pills had changed. They looked the same, but she didn't feel their effects nearly so strongly anymore. She couldn't concentrate. She couldn't pretend she was _normal_ anymore. She couldn't keep her attention on anything for very long, and it was a struggle to do even half the work she had been able to do in an eight-hour shift.

Her memory hadn't returned even after all the therapy. In fact, it felt almost worse now, because she had been aware of it for so long, feeling it like a sore tooth her tongue couldn't stop worrying. How could her life be gone? Were the faces she saw in her fragmented thoughts and dreams people she had known, figments of her imagination, or meaningless images she had seen once in her previous life? Who had she been? Had her only friend died? Did anyone remember her?

Her roommate, Vanessa, hadn't known much about her. Andrea hadn't been able to find photo albums or journals or diaries, anything to give herself a clue about who she had been. She had to have been good with computers; she knew that.

She also discovered, late one night, that all the files in her computer dated back to two weeks before she woke up in the hospital.

Maybe it had crashed. But she couldn't find backups, CDs or external hard drives or flash drives, nothing.

For the past six months, she had been coming undone, slowly. Some days were better than others. Most were worse.

Then she hadn't been able to get out of bed for four days, other than to shuffle to the bathroom and back. She hadn't been able to answer the phone when her work called. It didn't feel like something inside her had snapped; in fact, if she had been suspended in the air, so close to failure, she was still suspended—but by a single fingertip, now, dangling and looking at the distant ground and thinking that it might be a relief to fall. She could do nothing as she was. She couldn't function.

One night, she set her mind to getting drunk. She was able to take one sip of the first drink, but that was all. Drinking wasn't going to work, not even to help her relax and calm down for a while.

She wanted to sleep all the time, and she couldn't sleep. She wanted to breathe without hating herself, and oh, how she hated herself. Her friend had died, her only connection to a life she could no longer remember. She was useless. She wanted so so much to _care_ about something, to force herself to feel "right" again, but she just couldn't. "Right" had meant so little, before. Now she didn't even have that.

A week earlier, aware that she hadn't paid her rent in the past two months, Andrea had forced herself out of bed, forced herself to go to the store and buy something, and she had returned to the apartment and slid her key into the lock only to find that the locks had been changed. Her key no longer worked.

She had felt weak, lethargic, but she had still managed to break in; she did it almost without thinking, without making a conscious decision to do it. She packed her clothes, as many as she could fit into a suitcase, but she left the rest of it. She did grab the one thing she felt any sentimental attachment to: a small white stuffed kitten she had seen in a store one day and immediately known that she wanted, without knowing why.

The small cat was in her battered hatchback now, along with the clothes she had stolen from her own apartment. Her account was on empty; she had spent the last of it on gas, knowing that she had to get away, but she just hadn't known where. She had headed west, and she had ended up in Michigan City, Indiana.

_Michigan_. She thought it now, very calm. That's where she was. She was on the shore of Lake Michigan. She was going to die in Lake Michigan.

If the ice was too thick, she would break her bones on it. Maybe that would be easier, as long as it made her death quick.

She turned around. Her car was parked at the top of the hill, the hill she had stumbled down as she walked toward the water. She crossed her arms over her chest and thought about the dead. Someone would find her car, even if they didn't find her, but it wouldn't matter. Once she was gone, she would sink beneath the surface, out of sight, and no one would know she had ever been there.

The moon and stars were out.

She blinked once, and her vision swam for an instant. The wind howled, finding its way beneath her coat, pressing against her with undeniable insistence, pressing her toward the water and ice.

She had nothing left. Nothing to return to, and nothing to find. What she felt wasn't anger and bitterness; she just felt so tired and empty, and the thought of opening her eyes to another morning was more than she could bear.

Then she saw the stone building, the only building nearby with lights still on. Someone might still be there and see her and stop her. The shrubbery outside was blanketed in white.

She just needed to let herself fall. It didn't matter. It didn't matter who was inside—

Then someone walked out, huddled into a coat, walking quickly against the wind.

Andrea swallowed. Her feet, especially her toes, felt distantly like a solid ache; she could feel her bones in her fingers too. If she stayed outside much longer, she might not even need to do anything so hard as drown herself beneath the ice of a frozen lake.

When her feet began to move, when she began to shuffle forward, she hardly realized it. The snow was harder to move through at the bottom of the slope, where she was; the building faced a small parking lot, and a part of her waited for the lights inside to flicker out as she approached. If they did... then she thought she might just lie down in the snow and stare up at the stars, until she could crawl back to the water.

She wasn't sure when she had last eaten. A bag of peanuts from a convenience store, maybe, a day ago.

_Wellspring Counseling and Treatment Services_

The ghost of a smile might have curved her lips, when she read that. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably. She walked to the snow-choked edge of the parking lot, where plows had pressed the snow into craggy dense mountains of dirt-edged white, and couldn't make herself take another step. The cold wind was enough to freeze the tears in her eyes.

There was no use in it, none at all. None.

A pair of headlights cut through the darkness and she shivered away from the beam, just as the center's door opened again. A tall figure in a black hooded winter coat stepped out, wearing khakis and sturdy boots. She might have heard a laugh as it was whipped away by the wind, and when the shadowed face turned in her direction, she shrank back, something like dread welling up in her. She didn't want to see anyone. She didn't want anyone else to see her this way, to stop her.

But the figure stopped walking, turning toward her. "Can I help you?"

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She took a step back without looking and nearly stumbled on the slippery, ice-crusted snow.

"I..." The voice was masculine, and the man in the black winter coat took a few slow steps toward her. "I just want to help you. Are you all right?"

Her stomach sank. If she let him speak to her, if she let him delay her, then she would wake up in the morning. She would have to face another day of this.

She had her head bowed when he reached her. "Please, come inside," he begged her. "I know you're cold. Let me find something to help warm you up. A blanket or something. Please."

She didn't stop him when he reached for her bare hand and gently grasped it in his gloved hand, when he guided her toward the golden glow of the building, warm against the ice-blue glare of the snow. Two people were seated in the reception area, and the room was warm, and she started shaking.

_Please. Please let me go._

He unzipped his coat and brushed his hood down and turned to look at her. His dark eyes widened with recognition and something like pain.

"Oh my God," he whispered.

She shook her head, her gaze tracing his features. Short dark hair, dark long-lashed eyes, a classic square jaw and full lips. He was very handsome.

"You," she whispered, her voice trembling as she shook.

She had never seen a person in life after seeing him or her in her dreams, and Andrea had dreamed about this dark-haired man. There was no mistaking it. This was the same guy.

"Oh my God," he whispered again, and took a step toward her, his gaze locked to her face.

For the first time in so, so long, her heart rose slightly. "Do you—did I know you?" she whispered.

His lips parted, and when he blinked, his eyes were gleaming. He shook his head, and her heart sank. "Y—yeah," he forced out. "Yeah. Where have you been? Shit—"

He touched her hands, and she couldn't even feel it, she was so numb. Even so, she immediately took a half-step back. She didn't like being touched. She had never liked being touched.

He looked into her eyes again. "You need to warm up," he told her. "I'm worried about you. Would a hot bath be all right? It'll help."

She opened her mouth, but she didn't know what to say. She wasn't sure when she had last bathed. She was afraid of anyone touching her, but she just—she felt overwhelmed.

He had known her. And she recognized him from her dreams, but that was all. She didn't know his name or anything about him. It felt impossible.

Maybe she was still dreaming. Maybe she really had taken that last step and had fallen onto the ice, instead of walking toward the lights.

When she was able to focus on what was going on around her again, she was in another room, probably still in the treatment center. The room had a large tub, and some equipment. She wrapped her arms around her and took a step back. Her teeth were still chattering. Her hands felt like ice and burned against her skin, through her top.

She wanted to leave. She wanted to find the exit and go back to the edge of the lake as fast as she could. The more time she spent here, the harder it would be—

But he had known her. And she felt the first spark of—of _anything_ , that she had in a long time. He had known her, and she had thought that she was alone.

Water was pouring into the tub. He tested it with his fingers. "Hungry?"

She just gazed at him, her eyes wide.

He gave her a small, tentative smile, but his eyes were tender. "I can't leave you alone in here," he told her, his tone apologetic. "But you don't have to take everything off. Maybe just down to your underwear. Do you have anything else to put on?"

She swallowed. She didn't know. She had grabbed clothes, but she wasn't even sure what had made it to her suitcase.

He paused for a moment. His voice was even more gentle when he spoke again. "I'm sorry. You're overwhelmed. If I can't find anything, I'll send someone to buy something. Now, please..."

Once the tub was full, he moved to the other side of the room and cracked the blinds to look out. She slowly realized that he was giving her some measure of privacy, and looked down at her battered tennis shoes, but she couldn't seem to make herself move.

"I thought you were gone," he said softly, and her stricken gaze flew to his profile. "I was told that you were involved in an accident and you died. I'm sorry. If I'd known, I would have moved heaven and earth to find you."

Her stomach flipped. "I was in an accident," she said slowly. "A year and a half ago."

He glanced over his shoulder. She was still fully dressed. "The water's cooling off," he told her. "Do you need some help?"

"I—can do it." Her fingers and feet were numb and awkward, and it took her several tries to even take her shoes off. She stumbled while trying to peel off her pants, and she felt exhausted by the time she had stripped down to her underwear. She dipped her fingertips in the water, and hissed at the delayed sting of the heat.

"It'll hurt a little at first, but it'll be good for you," he told her. "Now, let me see..."

He distracted himself by searching a small cabinet while she slowly lowered herself into the water. It felt strange—she knew she had to have taken a bath at some point in her life, but she no longer remembered it, and she was still partially dressed instead of naked.

It did hurt. She closed her eyes and realized how long it had been since she had _felt_ anything.

"I can wash your hair. If you want."

She opened her eyes. He was kneeling down beside her. "How did you know me?" she whispered slowly.

He gave her a very small smile and shook his head. "It's a long story," he said.

"What's your name?"

"Ned Nickerson."

Her eyebrows rose. "'Ned'?"

"Yeah."

"Nice to meet you. Again." She shook her head. She just felt so slow, like her mind was moving underwater too. "Sorry. I just... I don't know anyone else who remembers me."

"Oh," he said quietly. "Here. Just slide down a little bit... there."

Her scalp prickled and stung a bit as she submerged the back of her head, with his guidance. Then she moved up a little and he began to lather her hair. "I don't mean to hurt you, so let me know if I do," he told her. "It's been a while."

She couldn't remember anyone else touching her like this. She generally did everything she could to avoid human contact, and though she did feel almost painfully self-conscious, the feel of his fingertips massaging her scalp was actually pretty nice.

In the morning... she closed her eyes again. She had no idea what the morning would bring. She didn't want to think. She just wanted to sleep and never wake up.

But he had known her.

He washed and rinsed her hair, and she splashed her face and flexed her wrinkling fingers. The water had cooled a little, but she didn't want to get out of the tub. The air in the room would be cold in comparison.

She had imagined sinking beneath the lake's surface, letting the freezing water steal her breath. Now the minor inconvenience of cooler air was enough to keep her in a tub.

_It's a long story._ What had he meant?

"Is your place nearby?"

She rinsed her face again. Her bra was heavy and waterlogged, and she felt awkward. In a way, she supposed, her place _was_ nearby; she would be living out of her car until she made a decision about what to do, whether she would try again tomorrow night or what. "Car's in the lot," she said slowly.

"Keys?"

"In it."

He moved to the faucets to turn on the hot water again, and gave her a small smile. "Just stay here. You have some clothes in your car?"

She nodded slowly. She could feel that she was starting to lose focus again, and she was so, so tired.

He left the room, and she heard the door lock behind him. She was aware of it, but she couldn't seem to care. She had planned on ending her life tonight. Whatever happened, happened. Caring hadn't helped her much so far.

He— _Ned_ , she reminded herself, feeling a glimmer of amusement at the unusual, old-fashioned name—wasn't gone for long. He came back with her suitcase, and she slowly began to push herself up, but the air was cool against her wet shoulders and she didn't have a towel or anything to change into yet. She felt warm where she was submerged, though.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

Ned looked up from unzipping her suitcase and gave her that same genuine, glowing smile. Since her therapy had ended, and even before that, no one had looked directly at her. Being the center of someone's attention felt so strange. "Feeling better?"

She didn't know how to answer that. Her lips parted and closed a few times, but no sound came out.

"It's all right," he told her. "I'm sorry. You can relax. I'm just going to find you some clothes. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

It felt impossible to tell him the truth. All she had to do was tell him that she had a hotel room nearby, and watch him leave. Then she could finish what she had come here to do.

He was watching her face, though. Very slowly she shook her head once.

He gave her a little nod. "Well, I'd check you in, but we're full up. Chez Nickerson is available, though. You can stay at my house tonight." He smiled at her again. "I'll even make you some breakfast in the morning."

The morning. His house.

She blinked a few times. Then he brought her a towel and clean clothes, underwear and a mismatched sweatsuit from her suitcase, and turned away to give her privacy. "Hmm," he commented, sinking down to kneel at her suitcase. He gently patted the head of the small white stuffed kitten, peeking above the zipper. "You must be Snowball."

She made a soft sound that almost seemed questioning, pausing as she rose from the water in her drenched underwear. How could he know...? Well, the kitten was white, so it was logical, but she hadn't heard doubt in his voice.

She was dreaming. She had to be dreaming. As dreams went, this one wasn't so bad. But when she opened her eyes, if it was all lost...

She started shaking again, and settled back into the tub with a quiet thump. Ned turned to her, and his face had paled a little when he came over to her. "Here," he said, and helped her up, so she could sit on the lip of the tub. He wrapped the towel around her shoulders and gently unhooked her wet bra; after a few breaths she was able to undress herself and towel off.

Once she had managed to dress herself, he helped towel-dry her hair and wrapped his coat around her. "Your hair's wet and I don't want you to catch cold," he told her. "I didn't see your coat in the car. I'll be all right. You okay?"

"Yeah." Her voice was barely a whisper.

What was she doing? She felt no urgency; a part of her wondered if she would never be seen again, and that same part of her didn't care. Her life was worthless; she could be reckless with it. He was shivering, his teeth chattering, and he cranked the heater up to high as he waited for the car to warm up. She was shivering too, and her small stuffed kitten was on her lap.

His fur felt strange. Too intense. Almost sharp.

She felt bruised.

"It's not too far. Less than half an hour, as long as we don't hit any wrecks." Ned shook his head, clearing some condensation from the inside of the windshield with a swipe of his gloved hand. "I can make you a grilled cheese and some soup when we get there, or we can stop somewhere and buy you something. Chicken nuggets? What do you feel like?"

What she felt wasn't nervousness; it was like she was out of her depth, and she hated it. It shouldn't be so hard to just answer a simple question, but it took her a full minute to find her voice. "Soup is okay," she said quietly.

He nodded, and another minute went by before he spoke again. "So you've been in Maryland," he said. "Your license plate."

She nodded slowly.

He took a deep breath. "So you seem a little out of it," he said, his tone casual. "If you want me to stop talking, I will. If you want me to keep talking but not ask you anything, that's okay too."

"Just—talk to me," she said slowly.

"Okay," he said. "Well, I moved out here... oh, less than two years ago. It's nice. I like being so close to the lake. And I'm closer to my family here..."

His voice was warm and soothing, and she curled up a little in the seat, her hand resting on the stuffed kitten, as she listened to him. His voice was comforting. Her therapist's voice had been comforting too, but she had been able to hear something patronizing in it, something she didn't sense in Ned. At least, she didn't think she did.

He trailed off some time later, and the only sound was the slight rattling and blowing of the heater, the swish of the windshield wipers as they swept away sleet, and the hush of the tires against the icy road. "You don't remember me at all," he said quietly.

_I dream about you._ But it was too easy to just stay silent.

He made a quiet noise. "It's all right," he murmured, and sighed. "It was too much to hope for. I know."

For the first time since she had set eyes on him that night, she wanted to touch him, to comfort him. She didn't know what kind of relationship they'd had. Had he been her friend, her therapist? Her lover? Her life for the past year and a half had been defined by its isolation and her loneliness, how completely adrift she felt. She had wanted a friend, someone to talk to, someone who understood her, but she hadn't been able to open up to anyone. Even her therapist, during those last few sessions—she had felt so frustrated that she didn't seem to be getting better.

Now, she felt like she was at rock bottom. Staring up into the night sky and wishing that when she closed her eyes, they would never open again.

His house was in a nice neighborhood; he didn't park his car in front of a deserted warehouse and turn to her with a demented gleam in his dark eyes, so that was good. He carried her suitcase for her and had his key out of his pocket before he had even reached the front door; she had a vague impression of the snowy lumps of bushes, a small porch, darkness inside.

"Mrow!"

"Hi Oscar," Ned said, as Nancy came in with him. As soon as the cat, a sleek black and white tuxedo one, saw her, he sprinted down a hall. Ned chuckled.

"He's just cautious," Ned said, shivering as he closed and locked the door behind them. "Let me put on some water to boil, so we can have coffee or tea. And the soup. Sorry, it's the canned stuff. I went through the last of the frozen stuff my mom sent home with me last week. All I have to tell her is that I've finished it off, and I think she would happily overnight me some."

Sometimes he filled the silence with a running commentary, and she was swept away by it. She just listened and let his words wash over her. His kitchen was on the small side; his dining table, where she sat, was only large enough to seat four. She saw stacks of mail on his coffee table, and one wall of his home was covered in photographs of smiling people.

Her throat ached a little when she saw that. He had a family, a past, people who cared about him. If he were missing for three days, people would notice and try to contact him.

She had nothing. She had left her cheap cell phone behind at the apartment that was no longer hers; there had been no point in bringing it with her, since she didn't have a job anymore and her therapist's number, as ineffectual as he had been, had been disconnected. There had been nothing to tether her. There was nothing.

How strange, then, that she had found someone who remembered her.

"So if you don't remember me, you didn't track me down," Ned commented, glancing over at her. She raised her chin just a little and looked at his face, and he glanced back down at the sizzling frying pan, where he was grilling a pair of sandwiches. "Can you tell me—about you?"

She swallowed hard. A few minutes later, he served them each a bowl of soup and a sandwich, the latter cut in half and oozing golden-orange cheese. "I woke up in the hospital a year and a half ago and the doctor told me about the car accident—I don't remember it at all. He told me I was with a friend and she didn't survive." Her voice was a little rough, and slow. She gently touched one sandwich; it was too warm to eat yet. "Do you—did you hear about it? Do you know who it was? They—they didn't know."

Ned was just gazing at her; he shook his head slowly, but she wasn't sure he was telling her the truth. "I didn't hear about it," he told her. "Nothing like that."

_You said you thought I was gone._ She suddenly felt so, so incredibly tired. It took immense effort to grip her spoon and drag it through the soup a few times, then test it to see if it was cool enough to eat.

"So what did you do after the accident, Nan?"

She tilted her head slightly. "Is that what people called me? Ann?"

Ned shook his head slowly. "Nan," he said, repeating what she thought she had only misheard. "Short for Nancy."

Her stomach flipped, and the spoon fell back into the soup bowl. "M-my name is Andrea," she said, and she wrapped her arms around her middle. "What..."

Ned reached toward her, but he didn't touch her. "It's all right," he said, his voice low and calm and sure. "It's all right. I... Ann, then."

She shook her head, her eyes wide. "I don't understand," she said.

He shook his head too. "I'm sorry. It... it's all right, Andrea. It's okay. Please relax."

She didn't want to, though. She didn't know what choice she had. She didn't have a clear idea of where she was, and she had no resources. Maybe she just looked like someone he had known a long time ago, someone named Nancy.

"I didn't mean to upset you." He nodded at her plate. "Please, eat. It's okay. Andrea."

It didn't matter how many times he repeated her name; she wasn't going to forget. Still, she slowly ate some of the soup and half the sandwich. Her stomach was so empty that she had to force herself to eat.

Ned's appetite seemed to be bottomless, though. And every time she glanced up at him, he was gazing at her, with a tender expression in his eyes.

He didn't think he was mistaken.

She wondered who Nancy was.

"Do you remember much from before the accident?"

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Just—flashes. Not much. But they told me that I didn't have any family. Do I—Do you know of any?"

"Not any close relatives," he admitted. "But I did contact one of your friends from a long time ago. Once you feel comfortable with it, maybe you'd like to meet her. I know she would love to meet you."

Just then she felt something against her leg, and startled a little as she glanced down. Oscar was purring as he rubbed against her sweatpants, then twined around to stroke his other side against her.

"Guess he's not so shy after all."

"I'm sure he likes you."

"Did—does he remember me?"

Ned smiled. "No, although I told you about him. You two haven't ever met."

She slowly reached down and stroked his sleek black head. "Oscar," she murmured.

He cleared the table once she said she was finished, then sat back down. "You look exhausted," he commented. "If you want to lie down, I have a guest bedroom, and the couch is pretty comfortable—I didn't put a TV in the guest room. Or you're welcome to sleep in my bed. Whichever you want."

She searched his eyes. "Guest bedroom," she finally was able to murmur, but she couldn't say the rest of it. _Were we lovers? Did I sleep with you? God, I wish I could remember..._

A flash of disappointment registered on his face, but only for an instant. He changed it to a smile. "Here. I'll show you where it is."

The spare bedroom in his home was about the same size as the one she had been using at the apartment, but it boasted a larger bed. He brought her suitcase and placed it beside the dresser, and pulled a spare blanket out of the closet in that room. "Bathroom is the next door on the right. I'll make us breakfast in the morning. Do you—have you had trouble sleeping? I can give you something just to make it easier..."

She shuddered and shook her head. "No pills," she muttered. "No pills."

He nodded. "All right," he said, his voice calm. "No pills. If you need me, my door is the one from the living room, where we came in. Or you can call for me. Okay?"

She nodded slowly, looking down. "Okay."

He didn't leave immediately, though, like she had thought he might. Instead he took a slow breath and released it, almost like a sigh. "I'd give you a hug, if I didn't think it would freak you out."

She brought her head up and looked into his face for a moment. "We've shared a bed before?"

He nodded, but he didn't say anything. His gaze flicked to her lips, then back up to her eyes again.

"What were we to each other?" she whispered.

"We cared about each other very much."

"Did you love me?"

He took a deep breath and nodded twice. "I loved you then," he said. "And I love you now. And you need to get some rest. You can stay here as long as you... as long as you need to."

He looked into her eyes again, and for a moment she felt almost lightheaded. He wanted to touch her, and a part of her wanted that. And he loved her.

But she didn't even know the person he loved. And she didn't know him at all.

He gave her a small smile. "Good night. Andrea."


	7. Chapter 7

She was alive. Nancy was alive.

Ned closed his bedroom door and sank down to the floor, trembling a little. He had thought—he had _known_ that he would never see her again, that she was dead and gone, but she was _here._ With him.

He ran his hand through his hair, still not quite able to believe it, even though he had spent hours in her presence. He had touched her. She was solid, flesh, _real_.

She had come back to him. He had begged her and she had come back to him.

He kept the letter she had given him in a notebook he kept by his bed, in with thirty other various notes from other people, but this one was fragile at the seams from his folding and unfolding it so many times. He didn't know how many times he had read it.

_I love you. I love you with my whole heart, with all of me, now and for always. And if you're reading this, I'm gone._

_I need you to know that if I'm dead, it's better this way. Believe me. I know, I've heard, what the alternative can be._

_I'm so glad it was you._

_Ned, please be happy. Please make yourself a wonderful life and enjoy it. Experience everything I never will, for me. And don't waste your time mourning me. I'm gone. No matter what else, I'm gone._

_I wish that we had known each other in a different life. I wish things had been different. I wish we'd had more time. But at least we had this time together._

_Keep it for me. Keep it sweet and don't let it turn bitter._

_I love you, Ned. I love you._

_And if you ever find me again, on the other side of this, then the worst has happened. Give me the other note. And maybe, just maybe, I'll see you there._

He hadn't understood the last part of her note until now.

So she had known this might happen. She had understood even then that one of the ways for her to get out might be like this. Ned had met former project soldiers who weren't like this; they retained much of who they had been, most of their memories, even if it wasn't everything. She shouldn't still be calling herself Andrea. She hadn't contacted Bess. It was possible that she no longer remembered Bess, or the person she had been so many years ago.

He needed to find her help. He didn't have the resources to deal with this only by himself.

Oh, he had held her until his arms had felt too terribly light without her in them. Sleeping alone—he was still strangely aware of it, in a way he hadn't been before her, even though it had been years since he had last seen her and he had seen other women, few and far between, during that time. Only the clear signs he had seen in her expressions, her body, her behavior had kept him from wrapping her in his arms, holding her until the rhythm of his heart matched hers. He would have warmed her himself instead of suggesting the tub.

On its face he knew it was ridiculous, that he shouldn't have felt so attached to her after so short a time. But over the week and a half he had spent with her, he had realized that what he felt for her wasn't just the sweet, heady intoxication of an infatuation. In some way he didn't understand and maybe never would, she was a part of him, and he of her. 

And she had come back to him.

And she didn't remember him, didn't know him, didn't love him. But Nancy had been a part of Andrea, and he had been able to see that in her tonight. She didn't remember, but he had faith that she would.

_I am compromised._

He always had been.

He had promised her the rest of his life, and he meant to keep that promise. He would be here for her in any way he could be, any way she needed him. Maybe she would never feel the same way about him again, and he wouldn't force it. He wouldn't cross the line. He would never cross the line.

Especially not now.

He had seen the scars when she had been almost naked in the tub. He had seen the look in her eyes. She was depressed, suicidal, suffering. She had harmed herself, or she had been harmed by someone else. She had had no one. She was thinner now, and she felt lost.

But she was alive.

That night, as he was coming down from the adrenaline and still jittery from everything he had held back to keep from upsetting her, he called Hank Estigan. Of all the people he knew, he thought Hank was most likely to help him.

Somehow, through some incredible miracle, she was back in his life.

Waiting for the morning to come, waiting for the chance to see her again, felt like waiting for Christmas.

\--

She couldn't fall asleep for along time, and then she woke up in the morning. She could hear a quiet sound at her door, and she could hear sizzling nearby. The sheets smelled different from hers. He used different laundry detergent.

_Ned._

She had dreamed of him.

She turned onto her side and nestled deeper under the covers. Snowball, her stuffed kitten, was tucked under the covers beside her.

She had been so depressed, and she always wanted to sleep. She had slept in her car during her trip because she hadn't been able to afford anything else, and her body still ached. Every morning she had blinked awake, groggy and stiff and freezing, having been able to sleep only for a handful of minutes at a time. Here, though, the mattress was soft, and she was warm.

Her situation still felt a little unreal, though. She wasn't sure what to do, and in all honesty she didn't have many options.

Another soft _tap-tap-tap_ sounded at her door. "Oscar," Ned called in warning.

A hint of a smile turned up her lips, despite herself. She still felt empty, but it was strange to know that the guy in the kitchen—that he cared about her, that she had done nothing really to earn it. She had wanted a friend for so long, but she had pushed away or ignored anyone who tried to get close to her, and many people just hadn't tried. She just had nothing in common with anyone; she had no answers to simple questions about herself.

Slowly she stretched and savored the warmth and comfort for a moment longer. Then she sorted through her clothes, trying to find something she could wear. She was able to put together another mismatched sweatsuit, and she found one last clean pair of underwear. She didn't have her toothbrush, though.

When she went into the guest bathroom, she shook her head slightly. New toothpaste and a new toothbrush and mouthwash, face wash and soap, a comb and a brush, even cheap deodorant, in a small wicker basket on the counter beside the sink. Maybe he did this often. Maybe he invited people to come back to his house and stay when the facility was full, so they could be somewhere comfortable. He seemed like that kind of guy, to her.

She brushed her reddish-gold hair, which fell past her shoulder blades, but couldn't find an elastic to hold a ponytail, so she shrugged. She brushed her teeth twice; her mouth felt nasty, after going so long without it.

_Go back. You don't deserve this._

She blinked and looked at her reflection. She hadn't washed her face in a few days, and she could see where pimples were starting to form. After a brisk scrub, her face was a little reddened, but at least she felt better.

He smiled at her when she slowly walked into the kitchen. His whole face lit up when he saw her, and she was both a little frightened by it, and warmed by it. "Scrambled eggs and buttered toast with strawberry jelly? It's whole wheat, if that's okay."

She nodded slowly. "Sounds good," she murmured. "I... Thank you."

He shrugged, reaching for the bread. "It's no problem," he told her. "I like doing things for people. Don't worry about it."

When she sat down at the table, Oscar rubbed against her leg again. "Mrow," he said, and she felt him rub his cheek against her calf.

"I think you've made a new friend."

She smiled and reached down to scratch behind his ears. "Good morning," she told the cat.

"Did you sleep well?"

She took a breath. She still felt like her brain was moving underwater. "Mostly," she said.

"Too cold? I have more blankets."

She shook her head. "I was warm. Thank you." She glanced down. "It was a nice change from sleeping in the back of my car."

He turned to her, his dark eyes sympathetic, and he didn't say anything for a moment. "Good," he said, his voice calm. "That's good. I don't want you to have to do that anymore."

He placed her breakfast in front of her a few minutes later, complete with a cup of coffee. The kitchen was quiet without the hiss of the frying pan, and Vanessa had always kept the television on in the apartment. The silence and stillness made her anxious.

_(nowhere to hide)_

"I know you need some rest, but you'll be bored here. I'd like you to come with me to work. The couch in my office is comfortable, and you can hang out in there without anyone bothering you. I do a lot of group sessions, anyway."

"Plus," she said slowly, "you don't know me and you don't want to come back and find I've burned your house down."

His smile became a grin. "Well, there's that," he told her. "Tonight we can come back here and watch a movie. Sound good?"

She nodded. "Yeah. That... sounds good. Can I... I need to wash clothes, and if there's a... laundry, or something..." She hated being around so many strangers, but he had already done so much for her. She didn't want to keep having to ask him for favors.

"I'll wash a load tonight while we're watching the movie. No big deal."

"I'll pay you back. Somehow."

He shook his head. "No. We're friends, okay?"

"Okay."

Once they were in the car, with her bundled into one of his other coats, he chuckled. "You look like you're being swallowed. We'll get you a coat today too. And a scarf. I think maybe blue is your color."

Then, while they waited for the car to warm up and the rear windshield to defrost, he handed her a small device with the cord to a pair of earbuds wrapped around it. "This is for you," he said. "You can listen to it today, if you want. You don't have to."

She nodded, and gazed down at it thoughtfully before wrapping her gloved fingers around it. For the entire trip, she didn't let it go.

People greeted Ned happily, and by name, at the center. He introduced her as Andrea, and told the receptionist quietly that she would be hanging out in his office. "And she needs to get some rest, so try to leave her alone, all right?" He grinned at the receptionist, and she grinned back at him, then gave Andrea a little thumbs-up.

He had done this before. That warmth in her chest faltered a little. He wasn't only like this with her. But she didn't know how she would have felt, if she had discovered differently. If he was a totally different person to everyone else.

"So," Ned said, as he closed his office door behind him. "I'll be in sessions until one o'clock, and we can order some lunch from the diner down the block. They're good, especially if you like everything with a side of butter, salt, and grease."

She smiled.

"If you get hungry, though..." He opened a drawer and showed her a stash of candy bars and chips. "I like junk food a little too much. Drinks in the cooler. If you want to take a nap—" He pointed out a sleeping bag under the credenza. "Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay."

He reached toward her, and she told herself to calm down; she didn't flinch when he gently patted her shoulder. "All right. I'll be back in a while."

Once he was gone, she sat down on the couch and took a few long deep breaths as her heart slowed. The voice inside her head was insisting that he found her an inconvenience and a burden, that he was too nice to say anything, but she didn't see anything in him to confirm that. She didn't understand why he cared about her so much—but, in a way, he didn't. He cared about the person she had been.

She opened her gloved hand and saw the device. It only had one button, and no screen; she saw a small locking mechanism on top, and the port for the headphones. When she unwrapped the earbuds cord, a scrap of paper fluttered down to the ground.

 _Keep this for me_.

It looked very similar to her own handwriting. Slowly she unfolded it.

_Ned loves you. Trust him. Once upon a time you loved him too._

_Don't let them make you forget._

She took a deep breath and slotted the earbuds in, then pressed the play button. She was still wearing Ned's coat and a pair of his gloves, and the scent of his aftershave and soap still clung to the collar.

_"Do you remember how old you were when you and your dad first made s'mores?"_

Ned's voice.

_"I was six."_

The voice was Andrea's, although it was quiet and unguarded, and almost—almost confident. Andrea's eyes widened as she recognized it.

_"He had been—away a lot right before my birthday and he asked what I wanted to do, and I said to go camping. My birthday's in—in April... It was cold. We were still in Illinois then. He showed me tracks, human tracks, animal tracks. We made s'mores. He laughed. I... There were times when he didn't laugh much and it made me so happy to see it, but a little scared too... and he told me that I looked so much like Mom. Half of me—half of me is hers. Half of me belongs to a ghost. All of me, now."_

She didn't even realize she had begun crying until she blinked a pair of tears down her cheeks.

\--

Usually Ned spent the time between his sessions in his office, unwinding a little, making notes, checking his email. He had left Nancy alone in his office, though. At midmorning, he received a message from Hank.

_Tomorrow afternoon earliest I can make it. ?_

_Sounds good,_ Ned replied.

_Stable?_

_For now._

Hank suspected what had happened, but he needed to see her to confirm it—and to treat her. Until then, Ned had been told to treat her like she was suicidally depressed. He could still see signs of that in her, but she had improved a little. The recordings they had made would give her something to focus on.

They were a puzzle, and she needed something to hold her attention.

He had listened to their recorded conversations until he had them almost memorized. Once he had believed her dead, it was all he had that remained of her, all the proof that he hadn't just dreamed that week and a half overseas. He had promised her that he would remember her. Listening to their conversations once the threat was gone, once he had believed that they were worthless to anyone else, had been a way of feeling connected to her again.

He unlocked his office door and found her still on the couch, still wearing his coat, as though she had forgotten she might need to take it off. She was slender, though; maybe she was cold. The white cord of the earbuds snaked from the player to her ears. She was reclining with her head propped up by one arm, her eyes closed, her cheeks wet. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed. She was completely spellbound.

Then, as though she sensed his gaze, her blue eyes flew open and she gasped. Her thumb pressed the button on the player a few times; she tugged the earbuds out and stared at him, sitting up.

"Hi."

She sniffled and coughed. "How—how long? How many of these?"

"We made them over days. Several hours' worth."

"W-why?"

He closed the door behind him and sat down at the edge of the seat beside her. "I think because you knew something like this might happen," he admitted. "You were afraid of losing yourself. But you didn't tell me this. You didn't tell me that you thought it might _all_ be gone. Or I just didn't understand."

She sniffled again, and he pulled a tissue out of the box on his desk and handed it to her. "How did we meet?"

"How about we talk about it over lunch," he suggested. He was still winding down some from his morning sessions, and he needed a little time.

Their order arrived quickly, along with a large white-paper bag of crispy golden French fries. The smell of them made Ned's mouth water, and he unwrapped his double bacon cheeseburger with delight. After studying the menu, she had opted for a grilled ham and cheese with tomato.

"When you and I first met," Ned told her, after he was halfway through his burger and she had tried her sandwich and plucked a fry from the bag to munch. "Your name was Andrea then, too. Kind of. I was working at a place kind of like this one, in Maryland, but it was attached to a sort of military base. It was at night, and I was on shift, finishing up my hours for my degree. My mentor—his name is Hank Estigan, and you'll be meeting him tomorrow. He was working there too, and he asked me for a favor. You had scheduled an appointment and he had a conflict, so he couldn't meet. He asked me to talk to you instead."

She tilted her head, studying his face, but she didn't say anything.

"You needed a prescription to help you calm down and sleep. I think you were just in Maryland between—between assignments. You were so jumpy and agitated, though, that when Jun—the receptionist there—called me to come get you, the security officer was—well, she had her hand on her taser. She was afraid of you, and she had fifty pounds on you."

She reached for another fry, but she didn't look away from his face.

"You didn't want to talk about yourself or what was going on; you didn't want to talk, period. You just wanted me to hand over the prescription for your pills."

She shivered. Maybe she didn't remember much, but he thought she remembered that. All the pills, everything that had controlled her for so long.

"We didn't talk for long, maybe about ten minutes. But you felt like you couldn't really talk to me, because I wasn't—part of the program."

"What is the program?"

Ned reached for a fry; he couldn't stop himself from glancing at the locked office door. Even now, he couldn't be completely sure that they hadn't stopped watching him, especially if they had been keeping tabs on her.

"Technically you aren't supposed to know," he admitted. "It's a training program. They only accept the top one percent of possible recruits. You joined when you were seventeen."

"Training for what?"

"A specialized covert force," he said slowly. "You and your team were assigned to pitch-black ops. One member of your team was your friend from childhood."

"George," she said quietly, but the word wasn't comfortable on her tongue, the way it had been when they had made the recordings together.

Ned nodded. "I have a feeling that something did happen to her," he said. "I asked Hank to check on it. But I think they told you enough of the truth to disguise the lie. I think you were on a mission with her and the rest of your team and something went wrong, and she was lost. That's part of what I was told. And that afterward, you... you were lost, too."

Nancy shook her head, clearly struggling to deal with what he was saying. "If that was a lie, then maybe..."

"That's why I asked Hank to check. I think you went back in because you felt responsible for her, and you wanted to make sure she got out, and then you could get out too. The enlistment period is for two years, and most soldiers opt to renew it multiple times."

"We couldn't have just—walked away?" She took a deep, shivering breath. "I... why? Why did I join it? Why did she?"

"She joined it because she was your friend and she wanted to be there for you," Ned said, his voice quiet. "You were recruited and you agreed, partially because you wanted to earn your father's approval, I think. It's an incredibly strenuous program, and the recruiting is... intense. The training is brutal."

"Strenuous."

Ned very nearly ran his fingers through his hair, but they were still slick with grease. "The people who complete the training, the soldiers, are torn down and rebuilt into machines. Without emotions, without fear, without conscience. You were. Andrea is who you became."

She shook her head. But he saw the troubled look. She would have heard enough on the recordings to show her.

"After the night we met, I didn't see you for years. Then I woke up on the couch in my apartment, when I was living in Maryland, and you were standing there with a gun pointed at me. Since we'd met, I'd volunteered to become one of the therapists in the project. I wanted to help people like you. Hank encouraged me to do it. But not in my wildest dreams did I expect to see you like that."

Her brow creased, and she looked down. Ned decided to wait for her to process what he had just said, and finished his cheeseburger as she slowly ate a few more fries, her manner distracted.

"I don't understand," she admitted. "And everything you're saying—it just sounds crazy. You sound insane. And I..." She released an explosive sigh.

He picked up another fry. When it was clear she wasn't going to continue, he shrugged. "It does," he agreed. "It sounds crazy. It all does. It was crazy to live through it. Part of the reason I gave you the recordings to listen to today—you were curious about your past. You wanted to know who you were. But I told you then and I'll tell you again now. No matter who you are now, or how you feel about me, I'm here for you. I want to support you and be here for you."

She touched the remaining part of her sandwich, but didn't even try to eat it. "Were you—Did you think that when I listened it would start coming back?" she asked quietly. "Was that part of it?"

He shrugged slightly. "Hank will be here tomorrow," he said. "He told me that you might be feeling lost. Depressed and suicidal. Like you have no real place. You need something to focus on. I was hoping the recordings could help."

She flushed and didn't meet his eyes. "And you trust him?" she finally murmured.

He swallowed and nodded. "As much as I trust anyone," he said. "I think there are things he hasn't told me. But there are things I haven't told him. You've been through a lot, and he can help. I truly believe that."

She sat back and wrapped her arms over her belly. She still wore his coat, and the sleeves were still far too long for her. Her expression was troubled.

She stayed in his office until dinnertime. He wasn't taking the late session tonight, so after that they were able to leave, and he took her to a store to buy a coat, a scarf and gloves, and some more clothes and supplies. She was still quiet, but he caught her casting a few glances at a coat with a hood and a removable warm inner lining. When she tried it on and zipped it up, he saw the ghost of a smile on her face, a small glint in her sapphire-blue eyes.

It looked good on her. He wondered what her life had been like for the past year and a half; he wondered what had happened to all the money she would have earned while working for the project. Maybe she had donated it all to charity while she had still been intact. Maybe it had been seized when her memory had been lost.

They were in his car again, and she was flexing her fingers in her new gloves, when she said, so quietly that it was almost drowned by the blowing of the heater, "Sometimes I look beside me and I feel like someone should be there, but I don't know who. I'm not—I'm not supposed to be alone like this. Am I."

He shook his head. "No one is," he told her. "But you... you were always part of a group, a team. For ten years. To lose that support..."

"It... it wasn't you?"

Ned swallowed. "I don't know," he admitted. "I'm sorry. I don't know."

Oscar was waiting for them at the door, and Ned fed him his dinner and then changed clothes. The house was full of the smell of Jamaican-rubbed chicken from the slow cooker he had left on all day, and when he came into the kitchen, she was waiting there, her hair pulled back, her sleeves rolled up.

"Can I help?" Her gaze was still down. She was still considering everything she had learned that day, still processing it, still feeling bewildered and bruised.

And he remembered her as he had so, so many times with sadness and longing, and now with happiness: of her beside him in that small kitchen a world away, making a meal with him, knowing that she would be sleeping beside him that night, savoring how comfortable they were with each other. Now, though, he wasn't dreading the end of the week, or what had turned out to be their goodbye to each other.

"You could set the table," he suggested. "Or a pot of rice to go with the chicken? Green beans, too."

"The chicken smells good."

"Thanks." He chuckled. "I'm not good at grilling chicken. The crock pot pretty much seems to work."

She read the instructions on the bag of rice he pulled out of the cabinet, and he helped her find everything to assemble it. It took her a little longer, but she was happy when it came out and fluffed easily.

Several times, near the end of their time together, they had bumped against each other, wrapped their arms around each other's waists; they hadn't shied away from touching each other. Now, he was a little wary of touching her, remembering how she had stepped away from him.

It would come with time, or it wouldn't. She was here with him now, and that was enough.

\--

"What do you feel like watching?"

In all honesty, she felt like going back to the guest bedroom and closing her eyes and just trying to figure out what the hell was going on. She almost felt like the only reason she wasn't freaking out was her lack of energy.

Either everything she believed was a lie, or everything he was telling her was a lie. It was easier to believe that her life, as fractured and lonely as it had been, wasn't just a waste—but it was _her voice_ on those tapes. It was _her._ And she had wanted so badly to have a place to belong, to not feel so terribly lonely, to understand who she had been before she had opened her eyes in that hospital bed.

She was going to try hard not to just listen to the tapes instead of sleeping, but she didn't know how long she would be able to hold out. She didn't want it to be true, but it was something she could hold onto.

Her parents were both dead. She didn't remember them, and the voice on the tapes had described her mother from old photographs: beautiful, always smiling, showing off pretty white teeth. Golden-blonde, bright blue eyes that almost always seemed to be crinkled with laughter, slender and unselfconsciously lovely.

Her father: dark hair that she could remember going gray, intelligent eyes, tall and handsome, usually wearing a suit. He had loved her, and she knew that, but he had been away from her so much. She had wanted him to pay attention to her, to be proud of her. Always.

She had a shadowy memory of him, she thought. She remembered Ned; she knew that now. She remembered a man who matched the description of her father, who seemed distant, and she had felt both fear of him, and such love for him. She remembered a smiling blonde teenager with happy blue eyes, a brunette woman wiping her hands on a kitchen towel and an apron wrapped around her solid waist. She remembered a woman about her ago with short dark hair and dark eyes.

She'd had no names for them, for any of them. She knew that the blonde teenager wasn't her mother. From everything else, she thought that maybe the brunette woman who was her age was George.

She didn't remember meeting her. She didn't remember knowing her, not really. But the thought that she might be gone, that the stern caring man she remembered was gone too... how could she mourn someone she had never really met?

What was it Ned had said to her, earlier? She had still been reeling from all of it, and she still was.

_"It's okay to mourn. It's okay to feel sad for what you've lost, for the person you were."_

Everything her original therapist had said to her had been about focusing on letting go of the past—but she hadn't _had_ a past, and she would have given almost anything to have one. Controlling her anxiety and depression with drugs—and now she didn't have anything.

_Don't let them make you forget._

But it had happened. It was done.

_I don't feel like watching anything._

He was studying her face, and she realized that she had been lost in her thoughts for a while—and he hadn't pressed her or disturbed her. That agonizing _slowness_ , the sheer amount of effort it took to do _anything_ , was part of what had made her just want to stop.

"I don't care," she said, and then she made herself smile. "Whatever you feel like."

"You've had a long day," he said. "It's okay if you want to go to bed. I think I'll just see what's on Turner Classic, and if you want to watch it too, you're welcome to."

She couldn't remember having had a friend; she knew she had, but she was so used to being alone, to moving unnoticed through her own life. She was bone-weary and exhausted.

And he was looking at her. And every time she looked into Ned's eyes, whenever she was able to make herself meet his gaze, her heart skipped a beat.

Maybe he was only seeing her as the ghost of who she had been to him once, but at least he was listening to _her_. At least he seemed to care about her.

"Okay."

They sat down on the couch, an open container of cookies on the coffee table in front of them; he took a couple and offered them to her. Oscar came over to her and butted his head against her calves a few times, then vanished for a minute. When he returned, she heard a faint jingling in the kitchen.

Ned groaned. "Oscar doesn't like to be ignored. That's his jingle-ball toy."

"He makes it less lonely."

He glanced over at her, the remote in his hand as he went through the channel guide. "Yeah, he does. I have to say, though—he likes my parents and a couple of my friends, but he _really_ seems to like you. I hope he's not bothering you." Ned paused. "And I have to keep a lint roller in my car, thanks to him, or I'd go to work covered in cat hair."

The movie playing was black and white, and she had never seen it before. She heard Ned's phone chime a few times, and he checked it, but otherwise they just watched in silence broken by the occasional comment or observation.

It didn't feel entirely natural or comfortable to her, but it was starting to. To just spend time with someone who wasn't asking her to do anything, who genuinely seemed to enjoy being in her company. She had wanted so, so much _not_ to need or be needed by anyone.

She didn't mean to, but she fell asleep while resting her head on the arm of the couch, closing her eyes for longer and longer intervals. Once she opened her eyes and realized that a blanket was covering her; once she opened her eyes and registered the sound of the dryer running, and saw a pair of inquisitive green cat-eyes just an inch from hers.

"Oscar," Ned chided softly.

She felt warm and relaxed and peaceful. Not everything was settled, but at least she had found someone who seemed to care about her. He wanted to help her. She wasn't sure if anyone else had.

She woke again when he was gathering her into his arms. He picked her up and carried her to the guest bedroom, brushing his lips against her temple before gently depositing her on the bed, and then helped her move under the covers. "Sleep well," he murmured, and gave her a small smile.

_Once upon a time, you loved him too._

How would it be, to sleep in his arms, to wake to his smile? She had, a long time ago.

"Good night," she whispered.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hi. I'm Dr. Estigan. You can call me Hank."

Andrea studied him for a few seconds before reaching for the hand he offered and shaking it. He was solidly built, half a head taller than her. He had pale eyes and sandy, close-cropped hair that was beginning to thin out and gray with age. He didn't match any of the people she had seen in her dreams, or in those flashes of something like memory.

Ned smiled as he looked between the two of them. They were standing in his office. "I have a group session, so I'll be back in an hour or so, all right?"

Ned had asked her that morning if she was okay with seeing Dr. Estigan, and she had told him that as long as he thought it was a good idea, she would. She was still feeling nervous, though. She had spent the morning listening to the recordings of her history, and she had been able to hear it in her recorded voice, the ease and teasing and friendship between who she had been and Ned. She was beginning to understand it.

"I need to run some tests," Dr. Estigan told her. "We might need to go over to the hospital and have a few MRIs done. Is that all right?"

She glanced over at Ned, whose hand was on the door. "It's okay," he told her. "If you'd rather I be there..."

She shook her head, but her eyes were wide. "I'll be all right," she murmured. She just didn't want to keep him from his work.

He came over to her and took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'll be back soon," he told her. "It's going to be okay. He's a good guy."

Even so, as soon as Ned had closed the door behind him, she wrapped her arms over her waist in a protective gesture. "MRIs?"

Dr. Estigan nodded. "You think of yourself as Andrea," he said.

She looked down. "That's what they told me my name was when I woke up in the hospital," she murmured.

"It's all right. I just wanted to make sure that's what you wanted me to call you."

She brought her chin up and met his gaze for a brief moment. "Did you know me?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I did. You seem to be pretty stable right now. Have you thought about harming yourself?"

She hung her head and sat down on the couch. The recorder was in her pocket; she hadn't yet let it out of her sight, and she wanted desperately to plug in the earbuds and get away from this.

"So you have." Estigan's voice was more gentle. "Okay. How much do you remember from before you woke up in the hospital?"

She shook her head, still looking down. "Not much," she whispered. "People's faces. I remember Ned's face."

Estigan's eyebrows had gone up when she glanced up again. "Hmm. I need to run a blood test, and do some scans of your brain. I need to see what damage was done, so I can help fix it. So you'll feel more like yourself." He tilted his head. "But you might not remember what that felt like, huh."

She shook her head, but she didn't say anything.

"Are you on medication now? Have you been, that you remember?"

She took her hair down from its ponytail and let it fall to cover her face. "I was for about a year after I woke up," she said. "Then my pills changed and I... I started feeling..."

"Disconnected?" he suggested, and she nodded. "Do you remember the names of the medications?"

He took her to the hospital and drew blood; he took her to a room with a large machine and they scanned her brain, and she closed her eyes and tried to stay still and wanted to cry. She didn't want to be in the hospital. She hated all of it. She wanted to be back at Ned's house. She wanted to sleep and to feel him rubbing her back and telling her she was okay, that it would be all right.

In the meantime, Estigan asked her about how she felt—and it was eerie, the way he almost seemed to anticipate her answers. He seemed to understand that she felt both lonely and unsure of what to do about it, that she needed something to do but no longer had the energy to do _anything_. She felt worthless. She felt empty, like nothing. Or, at least, she had until a few days earlier. Now that she had met Ned and begun listening to the tapes, she was beginning to feel the faintest glimmering of hope.

Ned was in his office when Dr. Estigan and Andrea returned. "How did everything go?"

She fought the absurd impulse to run to him, to accept the hug he would likely give her and nestle against him. He looked very handsome in his burgundy sweater and gray slacks, but to her he looked handsome in anything, even the flannel pajama pants and plain white undershirt he wore when he made their breakfast in the morning. Today she wore a pale blue sweater and a pair of comfortable jeans; Ned had bought them for her the day before.

No one else had ever given a damn about her. Not the way he did.

Estigan sat down on the couch, and she did too, at the other end. Her heart was beating harder. "According to the results... Andrea, Ned's told you some things about the program, I think. Every two years, you went through a process called decompression. Everything you had held back for that time, the horror, the sorrow, the joy... all of it came out. All your inhibitions were gone. For those two years, you had control; for that week, you had little to none. It's a way to balance, to provide release."

She just gazed at him. Ned hadn't quite put it in those words. It was so strange to hear someone else talking about something that sounded so insane.

"I was in the program when you joined it. I did your entrance interview. I facilitated your decompression twice. Ned helped you through it once."

Ned's eyebrows were up when she glanced over at him. "Twice?"

Estigan nodded. "Part of the reason you even joined in the first place is because your mother had a similar career in special forces. She died during a mission. Your father... I think a part of you wanted him to forbid you, but it wasn't going to bring him back to you. Feeling so disconnected from him hurt you more than you really admitted. At first, anyway."

Ned's face had gone pale. She glanced between them again.

"So you think I am her. Nancy."

Estigan nodded and cleared his throat. "I know you are. And based on the results, you had _something_ that someone else wanted. I think you were tortured; that's why you were in such poor shape when you woke up in the hospital, and it was a convenient excuse for your injuries and the memory loss. But the memory loss you've experienced was inflicted, not accidental. It was intentional."

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.

"Who did this to her?"

Estigan glanced over at Ned. "The same people who kicked you out," he said quietly. "My guess. Because I've heard of things like this happening to other... retirees. She wanted out and she knew too much. And once you've created the perfect indestructible machine, the only way to stop it... is to take out its heart. They took you apart, Andrea. What you knew was too dangerous, so they did everything they could to make sure you didn't know it anymore."

She started to breathe shallowly, panic fluttering in her chest. Ned came over to her and when he slid his arm around her, she leaned against him, hardly feeling his warmth or his reassuring stroke against her shoulder.

"They took almost everything," she whispered. "They took so much."

"Part of it was starting to fade," Ned commented. "She was worried about it..."

Estigan nodded. "They took you through a partial decompression," he said. "Part of that is emotional vulnerability, and they would have tried to use that against you. I can tell they didn't finish because your hormone levels are entirely out of whack. The MRI showed a small amount of very specialized brain damage. I think your kidney function is impaired as well, but that can be treated.

"We need to finish your decompression and transition you."

She glanced up at Ned. "What..."

He smiled at her and patted her shoulder. "It's all right," he told her. "We've done this before. The decompression part, anyway. Hank is great at it."

Dr. Estigan nodded. "I don't think it will take the full week, but it will be hard for you. And I want both of you to know this—based on the damage, both physical and thanks to the hormone imbalance, it's possible that none of the lost memory is going to come back. It's possible that it's no longer there to _come_ back. That all you'll gain after this is emotional balance and stability. Even if that's it, though, it's definitely worth it."

Ned nodded, but she saw his jaw tighten. His friend's comment hadn't made him happy.

Of course it wouldn't. He wanted Nancy back. He wanted the woman he had loved back.

"Why the partial decompression? Why would they go to this trouble?"

Dr. Estigan made a gesture that was almost a shrug. "If her memory came back, she might lead them to whatever they want, or give it away somehow," he suggested. "The medication you were first given? That was probably to help facilitate it. You wouldn't know anymore that the knowledge needed to be protected or kept secret, if it came back, and you probably would have just directed them to it, or talked to someone about it. I think that failed, though. But it's possible that it didn't.

"After a year, you were taken off that medication. The pills you were given were likely placebos. Retirees in that condition generally become more and more depressed, until they can no longer function. They become suicidal. You would have solved their problem without any questions, because you were isolated, with absolutely no support or help. If you had killed yourself, no one would have necessarily questioned it."

She almost had. She had been at the edge of the water, planning it. She had come so close to killing herself when she was only moments away from meeting someone who could help her.

And someone had intentionally made her that way.

She choked, her eyes stinging with hot tears, and Ned drew her to him. She buried her head against his shoulder and he rubbed her back.

"So did you want to start tonight?"

"As soon as possible. If it's okay with you, Andrea."

_Andrea._ The name they had given her, knowing that it would cut her off from everyone.

"Nancy," she whispered. "If that was my name, then don't call me Andrea anymore."

\--

"You're going to be okay."

She looked so scared, but Ned and Hank had agreed that Hank would take her through the rest of her decompression and transition her back to "normal." He would be able to spend the following days with her, and he had experience with her.

But Nancy didn't remember any of that. She had also refused to take any pills, so Hank had managed to have the medication made into a liquid dose. She wore one of Ned's threadbare Emerson t-shirts from a lifetime ago as a sleep shirt, and Snowball was beside her. Oscar was seated at the foot of the bed, beside Hank. The cat's tail twitched as he watched the visitor. He almost, Ned noted with some faint amusement, seemed to be ready to protect Nancy.

Ned reached for Nancy's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I'll see you on the other side," he told her gently. "But it's going to be all right. It's okay."

She nodded, and when Hank handed her the dose, she took it and made a face. Then she chased it with half a glass of water. "Oh God," she murmured.

"Tastes bad?"

She nodded, and glanced between them. "What's going to happen?" she whispered.

"You'll sleep," Ned said. "It's okay."

She slid beneath the covers, blinking in longer and longer intervals. Hank settled into a chair beside the bed with a battered paperback, and Ned waited until he could see that Nancy was asleep. Then he and Oscar went into the living room.

As foolish as Ned knew it was, some primitive reptilian part of his brain felt jealous of Hank. He remembered all too well how intimate it had been to help her through decompression, how physical she had been, how close they had become. Imagining Hank sleeping beside her and holding her, even knowing that there would be absolutely nothing sexual about it... the image drove him crazy.

But, he reminded himself, Hank had the time to do this, and Ned didn't. She needed around-the-clock supervision and help. And Ned had never helped anyone transition out before. She deserved Hank's help and the benefit of his experience, Ned's foolish jealousy be damned.

He turned on a movie, but he couldn't concentrate. He made a grocery list, played with Oscar for a while, and caught up on a few emails. He even sent his mother an email; he knew that if he called her, even this late, they would likely be on the phone for an hour, and he wanted to be available if Hank needed him.

Ned was in his bathroom, wearing pajamas and brushing his teeth, when he heard a knock on the door beside him. Ned opened it, the toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth, to see Hank standing there. His pale eyes were calm, but his brow was slightly furrowed. Ned's heart skipped a beat and sank. If something had gone wrong...

"She's rejected me. She's asked for you."

Ned raised his eyebrows and spat a mouthful of lather into the sink. "I didn't even know that was possible," he commented, hastily rinsing his mouth and toothbrush before he followed his old mentor.

"I didn't know either," Hank admitted.

Nancy was sitting up in bed, her eyes shining, when they returned. "Hey," Ned said soothingly. "Hey."

She reached for him, and Ned sat down and took her into his arms. She wrapped herself around him, nestling against him. She held him just the way she had the first time he had helped her through decompression, and he closed his eyes, shaken by the intensity of that memory and how much he had wanted to feel this pure, innocent acceptance and closeness again. He had missed this so damn much.

"Don't let me go," she whispered against his neck. "Please please don't let me go."

"I'll never let you go, sweetheart," he murmured, and rubbed her back. "Shh. I won't let you go."

"Is this how she was before?" Estigan asked quietly.

Ned nodded and stroked her hair, his other hand still on her back. Her legs were wrapped around his waist; she no longer seemed aware of, or to care about, Hank's presence. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Did you sleep in the same bed with her?"

Ned nodded again. "I'll take her to my bed," he said softly. "You can sleep in here."

They brought her clothes and belongings and Snowball to Ned's room, and Ned brought her, her body still wrapped tight around his. She wasn't crying, but she was clinging to him. Hank's expression was a little troubled, and he looked like he wanted to say something, but Ned was reassured; she was acting the way she had before. She would need to rest and take it slow for a while. Then their work could begin.

"Honey," he said softly. "Honey, I need to call work. I'll be right here. Just lie down and I'll lie down with you in a minute."

He had three vacation days left, and he called his boss and explained that he had a family emergency and needed to take the rest of the week off. His boss wasn't happy about it, but Ned hadn't missed a day of work since he had started, and he had filled in for several people when they needed it, so she agreed. If she hadn't, Ned didn't know what he would have done. There was no way he would leave Nancy when she needed him.

Oscar was curled up at the foot of the bed when Ned slid beneath the covers and reached for Nancy. She moved into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Do you want to talk, or do you want to rest?" he murmured, stroking her hair. "We have time. It's okay."

"Sleep," she whispered. "Please stay with me."

Ned's eyes began to prick with tears. He had whispered that to her so, so many times, to stay with him, to come back to him and stay with him. "Always," he whispered, his throat tight. "I'll never let you go, Nan. You're safe. Shh."

He felt her relax, her arm slung across him and half her chest pressed against his. He kept one arm looped around her waist and his other hand stroking her hair. He was warm, but he didn't want to let her go.

He hadn't even known it was possible for her to reject someone taking her through decompression. Maybe it had only been because she knew he was nearby... but Hank's questions about her behavior hadn't sounded rhetorical. Maybe she hadn't been like this with Hank when he had taken her through before.

Ned's lips brushed her forehead, and she nestled against him. They fell asleep holding each other.

He had dreamed of this so many times, especially while he had still been in the program and he had prayed every morning that she would come back to him, when his heart had still been mostly intact. He had dreamed of this after he had been told of her death, and in his dreams he had been happy, because she had been safe. In his dreams, she didn't take the pill. They ran away together, and they found a place they could be together and no one would come after her. And in his dreams, she loved him still.

He woke when she was stirring in the blue pre-dawn, slowly blinking herself awake, and he gently touched her cheek and saw her beautiful blue eyes, low-lashed and sweet, as she gazed at him. "Morning," she murmured, and he smiled.

They took their turns in his bathroom, and Ned stumbled into the kitchen to feed Oscar, and then they returned to bed.

"I was going to kill myself," she whispered, her voice a little muffled as she nestled against his chest, his arm around her again. She clutched a handful of his undershirt in her fist. "I wanted to die. It was _seconds_ , Ned. If I hadn't walked up the hill and you hadn't been there..."

"But you did, and I was." He rubbed her back. "And I'm so glad. I'm so glad you came back to me. Because if I'd found you that way..." He choked up, and couldn't speak for a moment. "If you're ever feeling that low again, promise me that you'll talk to me or someone else. Promise me."

"I promise." He could feel that she was still trembling a little.

Then she took a slow breath and spoke again. "You love me."

"Yes." He stroked her back and felt her breathe against him, and God, he didn't want to let her go again.

"You love who I was."

"I love who you were. I love who you are. I see in you the same things that made me fall in love with you before. And nothing you can do, nothing that happened to you, will change that. Even if you never remember, and even if you never feel the same way about me again."

She took a breath. "How long were we together?"

He smiled, but small and bittersweet. "We—I was taking you through decompression. We were like this. The way you feel right now—like you can't really hold anything back, the way you want to be close. I fell in love with you but I didn't tell you, and then, at the end of the week, the last day we were going to spend together, you told me that you had feelings for me. That you loved me. That day... we had less than that day together, really. You had never been with anyone else, had never loved anyone that way, and you... you thought it was your last chance. That we would never see each other again, maybe that you'd never be able to feel that way again. I think you didn't believe you'd be coming back from your next reenlistment."

She had pushed herself up, and she was looking into his face, her eyes wide. "A day?" she whispered in dismay.

He nodded. "I promised you that I would show you all the love I could, that day and for the rest of our lives." He reached up and stroked a strand of hair away from her cheek. "And I meant it. I asked you to run away with me. I think I begged you, at one point. But you were convinced that it wouldn't be long before they found us. That I couldn't just ride off into the sunset with you without any repercussions. You asked me to go home and build the life that you would never have, and enjoy it for you."

Her eyes were gleaming again. "But this..." She shook her head, trying to find the words. "This feels _right_."

He gave her a small smile. "And this is how we were," he murmured, and stroked her cheek. "When I was with you, it was like I had finally found my home. And then we lost each other."

She returned his smile, but he saw the tremble in it, the faltering. "I wish I could remember," she whispered.

He shook his head. "I think I'm starting to understand," he told her quietly. "There was so much pain in you. So much that you felt like it was killing you, changing you into someone you didn't recognize and didn't want to be. I hate that this has happened to you. I hate it with all my heart. What they did to you is wrong, and it always has been.

"But when we made those recordings... you were giving me the best parts of you, all you could remember, all you had been. Everything that came after was only pain."

"So it's better this way."

He shook his head again. "There is no _good_ ," he told her. "There is just today and getting through it and what tomorrow will be. There are the stories that you wanted to keep because they were important to you. But in a way, you're starting over. You choose what you take. And I'll be here for you."

She nestled against him again. "No one else has ever been here for me," she whispered. "I've felt so alone."

"Not anymore," he told her, and wrapped his arms around her.

Her inhibitions were lower, and she was being honest, but it didn't have the same incredibly painful confessional, purging air to it that their week together had. He savored the closeness to her after so much time apart; he savored feeling her in his arms again. Reluctantly they rose for breakfast, and Ned wasn't sure how Hank was going to respond. He had seemed troubled the night before.

Hank was sitting on the couch when Nancy and Ned finally emerged from his bedroom for breakfast, her hand in his. Hank had a cup of coffee on the table in front of him, a notepad in his hand. He was decent with computers, but he had always preferred longhand notes during sessions. Maybe it was just a quirk of the program: computers could be hacked, and physical notes were more secure.

She had barely acknowledged Hank's presence at all the night before. Ned knew that during decompression, soldiers did become focused on the therapist, but he had never been in a situation that involved two therapists trying to share the responsibilities.

"Cinnamon rolls?"

Nancy nodded. Hank shrugged a little. "I already had some toast, so I'm fine."

She followed Ned to the kitchen, and once the oven was preheated and the prepackaged rolls were baking, they returned to the living room. Nancy sat down beside Ned on the loveseat, and laced her fingers between his.

"Good morning, Nancy," Hank said.

She murmured something almost incomprehensible in reply, and her gaze fell to her lap. She moved closer to Ned, and when he released her hand so he could wrap his arm around her, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Ned murmured.

"Yeah," she murmured.

Hank released a quiet sigh. "Did she sleep well?"

Ned nodded. "As far as I could tell."

"And you can be here today."

Ned nodded again. "Through the weekend."

Hank nodded, clearly relieved.

Once the cinnamon rolls were out of the oven, Ned transferred them to a plate and pulled out a butter knife so Nancy could smear them with frosting. Hank had motioned to him, and Ned went to the doorway, keeping an eye on her as Hank talked to him.

"Ask her these questions. I need to hear what she says." He handed Ned a folded sheet of paper from his pad. "And I need you to be honest with me. Were you two— _together_ , last night?"

Ned clenched his jaw and released it. "No," he murmured. Nancy smiled when she licked a trace of frosting from her thumb, and Ned's heart skipped a beat. "We slept. We talked this morning. Nothing inappropriate happened."

"But she slept with you. She wanted to sleep with you." Hank shook his head.

"She didn't do that with you?"

"Of course not. I held her hand a few times while she was upset. That was all."

Ned kept himself from smiling. On one level it didn't mean anything, and it hadn't when decompression had begun last time either—but he wondered if it was a sign, that her memory was starting to come back a little, or that maybe, just maybe...

"They look great, Nan."

She gave him such a sweet, happy smile that his throat tightened. "Thanks, Ned."

She only had eyes for Ned, and though he remembered very well how their time together had been before, what he saw in her was more longing for a companion and a friend than anything else. She had been starved for intimacy and a supportive relationship, especially once she had lost George's presence in her life, and she had been unable to reach out to anyone to fill that need. He held her hand when they sat down with their breakfast plates and coffee, and he smiled at her whenever her gaze met his.

_I've felt so alone._

He had, too, but at least he had still been able to talk to his friends and family. He hadn't been able to really talk about what he had been through and lost when Nancy had walked out of his life again, but at least he had known that they cared about him and loved him. He had never doubted it.

"Tell me what you remember, from before."

After they cleared the breakfast plates and sat down in the living room together, with Hank sitting just at the edge of the group, Ned started asking her Hank's questions.

She looked into Ned's eyes. "I remember a man with dark hair starting to go gray," she said. "Serious eyes, and very handsome. I loved him but I felt—in awe of him. I think he was my dad." She took a deep breath. "I remember a woman with short dark hair who was about the same age as me. I think she was—George."

Nancy glanced down. Her voice had trembled a little when she said her friend's name, and Ned gently squeezed her hand to reassure her.

"I remember an older woman with brown hair, starting to go gray a little. She felt—protective. Like the kitchen. I think she must have been Hannah. A blonde girl, about the same age as me. Happy and sweet. I don't remember her name."

"Bess," Ned murmured. "Her name is Bess, and she remembers you and she loves you. George was her cousin."

"Oh." Nancy sniffled, and then she squeezed Ned's hand. "I... I want to meet her again. And I remembered your face too, Ned. I dreamed of every one of them, but I dreamed of you and you felt safe. You felt like home."

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "I dreamed about you too," he whispered. "It felt like every night, I saw you in my dreams again."

She smiled at him. "I didn't know if you were real," she said. "I didn't know if anything was real. And then I saw you... and I thought maybe I was dreaming again, but I'd finally found you and I didn't want to wake up."

Ned could sense Hank's gaze on them; without even glancing over, he could imagine what he would see in it. He stroked her hand a few more times, then glanced back down at the list. "Do you remember anything other than faces?"

She shook her head slowly. "Not... not really," she said. "I don't know. If they were all real, then maybe. All the—the details, are gone. The context."

"Okay. It's all right."

Her lip trembled. "I'm so afraid that none of it is real," she whispered. "Nothing I remember, nothing I've been. Someone faked a _life_ for me, if what you've told me is true. My roommate? She was lying when she said she remembered me. Everything..."

He opened his arms and she moved into them, wrapping herself around him and resting against him. "But right now is real," he told her. "This is real. Feel me breathing, and my heart beating. This is real. It's okay."

His lips brushed against her neck in a soft glance, and she shivered a little, her fingertips stroking the nape of his neck. After a moment, the springs creaked in the couch as Hank shifted.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered.

"And that's okay. We'll figure it out. One step at a time. I'm so proud of you for fighting." He moved to look into her eyes, and cupped her cheek. Her eyes were shining. "Even when it was so heavy that you felt like you might drown, you didn't. Maybe things were close but you didn't give in. And I love you." He stroked her skin with his thumb. "My life was dimmer without you in it, and you matter so much to me."

The pool of tears shimmering just above her lower lashes spilled over as she searched his eyes. She didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. For what felt like several minutes they just gazed at each other.

He didn't need her to say that she loved him. He only needed her to live and be happy, because for so long she had been lost to him.

Then Hank cleared his throat, and reluctantly Nancy moved beside him again, sniffling once and wiping her eyes.

"What will make you happy?" Ned asked.

"Finding a place I belong." She sighed. "I've felt like I was on the outside looking in for so, so long. I..." She sniffled again. "I don't want to feel that way anymore."

Ned handed her a tissue, then laced his fingers between hers again. "Now tell me if you associate anything with these words."

A few of them, Ned felt _he_ might have recognized—from when she was telling him about things that troubled her, about missions she had been given and the awful results. She kept shaking her head to indicate that she didn't recognize them. Hank gently corrected Ned's pronunciation of the fourth set of words, and Nancy shook her head again, but she started rubbing the nape of her neck and bowing her head.

The last place on the list drew a quiet "No" from her, and then Ned touched her knee. "Are you feeling okay?"

She made a quiet humming sound. "My head feels—fizzy," she murmured. "Can I sleep for a while?"

"Sure you can," he told her, and he walked her to his room. Her steps were slow, and she was breathing through her mouth, faintly audible. When Ned glanced back at Hank, Hank made a rapid gesture. He wanted to talk to Ned.

Maybe this was a bad sign. Ned's stomach sank even as he rubbed her shoulder. "I'll be there in a minute."

She turned wide, anxious blue eyes on him. "Please," she whispered. Then she went to what had been her side of his bed, and slid beneath the covers, moving almost like she was underwater, like any pressure was enough to bruise her. Oscar streaked into the room and prowled to the head of the bed to peer curiously into her face. She smiled faintly and reached up to stroke his back a few times, but her gaze was still distracted.

Hank's jaw was set when Ned looked at him again. "You're too close to this," Hank said, his voice low but firm. "You're compromised. And judging by all this, I'd say you've been compromised since that mission you went AWOL on."

Ned didn't reply. In all honesty, Nancy had bonded with him, and it didn't matter whether he actually _was_ too close. It was too late for Hank to do anything about it.

"I believe that you didn't sleep with her last night, but did you? Before?"

Ned didn't want to reply to that, either, but he could feel a slight flush creeping up, and Hank shook his head. "Holy shit, Ned."

"She and I were close," Ned said. "And it was part of her trusting me and letting me help her. Nothing inappropriate—"

"It's unprofessional, and borderline abuse—the power dynamic, and she's pretty much intoxicated—"

"If you're questioning whether she could give consent," Ned replied, his voice low but hard, "nothing happened between us until the last day, the day she was considered competent enough to give her legally binding consent to reenlist for _two years_. She initiated, and I told her it was inappropriate, that I would be taking advantage of her. She was aware. And if you say again that it was abusive, then I would say that her entire fucking _career_ was abuse. She may have agreed to join the program, but she was still a child. An incredibly competent and precocious teenager, but she wasn't an adult."

"But you were," Hank replied.

Ned blew out a long breath and shook his head. There was no way to explain to him how hard it had been, or how she had begged him. She had been grateful to him, and it had broken his heart.

And then he had lost her. That version of her was gone, maybe forever.

"It's happened," he told Hank. "Did you have anything useful to say to me? Or did you just want to have an argument."

Hank crossed his arms. "Give her space," he said. "Don't mistake her loneliness and her desire for human contact for anything more than that. Don't make the same—mistake, this time. It's going to take a while for her to be stable, and if you know that she has those feelings for you, you _can't_ be her therapist. You can't."

"I know. I'm going to check on her. All right?" Ned took a deep breath. He just felt so, _so_ fucking protective of her. He had seen firsthand how fragile she had been, and still had to be. "Are we done with the twenty questions, now?"

"For now," Hank said. "Tomorrow, the day after at the latest, we'll know for sure whether she'll recover any of her memory. If she hasn't, the rest will be easy."

"And if she has?"

Hank was glancing back at his notebook; he looked Ned full in the face. "Hope, for her sake, that she hasn't."

Some level of perverse spite made Ned close the bedroom door behind him when he went to check on Nancy. Nancy's eyes were open when he walked in; Oscar was seated on the shelf at the window, his tail twitching as he looked out onto the snowy landscape.

"Are you okay? Are you still feeling strange?"

She raised her hand in a beckoning gesture, and he moved under the covers with her. She moved toward him, resting her head on his shoulder, and he held her. She didn't say anything for a long moment, and he wondered if she had fallen asleep again.

"Do you trust him?" she whispered, repeating the same question she had asked the day before.

He had, for a long time. "Do you?" he murmured, knowing that she wouldn't have asked, not with that tone, if she did.

She shivered a little. "No," she whispered. "Not now."

_Did you remember something?_

_Hope, for her sake, that she hasn't._

He rubbed her back, and he couldn't make himself ask.


	9. Chapter 9

The house was quiet after nightfall. Hank was elsewhere in the house, and Ned was beside her, shirtless, strong muscular arms, and she didn't know how she was supposed to feel when she looked into his eyes—she only knew how she _did_ feel, and it scared the hell out of her, because she didn't, she _couldn't_ , it wasn't...

She wanted to claw her skin off.

She had almost said it several times that afternoon. It was so hard not to say what she was thinking and feeling, but Hank's presence was like a glowing red light. She didn't trust him. He was telling Ned what to say. She didn't clearly remember Hank from before...

Nothing felt _real_.

And then Ned had said those words to her and asked if she remembered anything, and at first she hadn't remembered, she had only known the feeling of it, dark-red and ashamed and horrified. It had been slow, and it came in flashes: her own hands stained and sticky with fresh blood, her lungs stinging from the smoke, the sharp bolt of nausea, the _water_...

As soon as Ned's eyes had closed, that awful voice, the one that had drawn her spellbound to the edge of Lake Michigan, had begun to speak again, and she hadn't been able to help listening.

_He's going to find out, and when he does, he'll leave. He'll hate you and throw you out and you'll deserve it. No one left. Nothing else left, no home, nothing. You're a monster. You don't deserve his love. He doesn't really know who you are, but he will..._

He was asleep.

It broke her heart to slide out of his arms, but she did. She moved carefully, so quietly, and shut herself inside his bathroom.

_No pills._ Her throat tightened at the thought. She didn't see a straight razor as she hastily searched the drawers below the bathroom counter. She did find a pair of scissors, though. It would do.

He would find out, and losing him would kill her. It would be better this way. He would never know. He...

Her sight blurred with tears, and she looked around the room. Her first impulse was to find a towel to staunch the blood flow, but cutting herself wasn't going to be enough. She wasn't going to back off this time. The bathtub—so he wouldn't have to clean his entire bathroom.

She blinked a pair of tears down her cheeks, the scissors gripped hard in her right hand. She took a deep breath and turned toward the shower, pushing back the curtain. Her heart hurt. All of her hurt.

_At least I'll stop hurting._

What else couldn't she remember? What other nasty surprises were waiting? What had she _been_...

She heard a quiet tap at the door, and then it opened. Ned stood there, shirtless and blinking into the bathroom light, and the room seemed to tilt a little. It was impossible to breathe. She couldn't let him...

He would find out and her life would be over anyway.

She gripped the scissors more tightly and shrank inward. Ned took a slow step forward, one hand rising, almost drifting up to the level of his waist.

"Tell me what's going on." His voice was gentle, soothing. She didn't hear alarm in it, or anger. His dark eyes were sweet, long-lashed, warm as he searched her face. She could see a tightness in his jaw, though.

She shook her head, her chest tight. He was going to stop her. He _knew_. A flush swept over her cheeks, until her entire face glowed with shame. He _knew_ what she had been thinking about doing to herself.

He would find out and he would wish that he hadn't interrupted her.

"Talk to me. Please."

She blinked another pair of tears down her hot cheeks, her calves pressing against the cool edge of the tub, and Ned took another step toward her. His voice was soft and low.

"Here. I just want to talk, Nan. Here."

She started sobbing quietly as he reached for the scissors; she couldn't force herself to hold onto them or lash out at him with the weapon, and he took them away from her, throwing them to the other side of the room in a hard backward toss he didn't bother turning back to see. They clattered to the floor. He took another step and wrapped his arms around her, tight.

She buried her face against his shoulder and sobbed harder, unable to answer him when he stroked her back and asked her to please talk to him. She didn't know what to say; she _couldn't_ say what was in her head. She just couldn't.

So he released a quiet sigh and rubbed her back. "Drink some water," he murmured. "Let's go back to bed. You need your rest."

When she could breathe again, she drank half a glass of water and let him lead her back to bed. She felt drained, and oddly disappointed. She still didn't want him to find out what she had remembered.

Before he joined her in his bed, he went to a drawer and came back with a silky strip of fabric—one of his ties. He reached for her and clumsily knotted their wrists together one-handed, his left and her right. She raised her eyebrows, sniffling once.

"Just a precaution."

They awkwardly climbed back into bed, and when he flexed his fingers, she took a breath and laced hers between his. He moved onto his back and she rested half on top of him, some distant memory telling her that if she rested fully on top of him, that would be a mistake.

"Please talk to me," he whispered, and reached up to stroke her hair. "I know that whatever made you want to do that must have hurt you before you ever went into the bathroom. You can tell me. You're safe here."

She cringed, burying her flushed face against his chest. If she just—if she could just never think about it again—but it would be like a cancer, it would eat her up, reminding her every day that he could find out.

"Nan, if it was from earlier, when I was asking what you remembered... if that triggered anything..." He rubbed his palm over her shoulder blades in a comforting circle, and she gasped in another sob. "Honey, I already know. You won't be telling me anything new, if you talk about it."

She blinked. Her whole body seemed to ache with the force of holding it back. "I was a monster," she forced out, unable to look into his face.

"You were conditioned to respond to orders and carry them out in the most efficient way possible," he replied. "You had no choice."

"People always have a choice."

"And you didn't. If I hold a gun to your head and ask you to do something, that's not the same choice as if I just politely ask you with no gun. The consequences are very different. The consequences for you would have been very different. You couldn't just walk away. Even though you wanted very, very much to walk away."

"How..." She started crying so hard she couldn't speak, and he held her, rubbing her back. When she sniffled he moved to pull a tissue out of the box beside the bed.

"How could you love me, knowing that?" she finally whispered, and met his eyes in the half-dark.

He gave her a small smile. "Because I know the woman you were underneath it," he said. "The woman you are. People make bad choices, sometimes. People make the best of awful situations. You did what you had to do, and not all of it was death and pain and suffering. People survived who otherwise wouldn't have, because of you and your team and what you did. And I saw that it ate you alive. I realized that you willingly walked back in to save your friend from that life, even knowing you probably wouldn't make it back out again. And as much as I missed you, I loved you even more for it."

She sniffled and wiped her nose again.

"That voice that told you that you don't deserve to live, that it would be better just to end it... that voice isn't your friend. That voice hates you and wants you miserable. You're meant to live, Nan. You deserve to live. You deserve to be happy. What happened, happened." He reached up and cupped her cheek. "Please don't run away from me. Please don't ever think that we can't get through anything like that. Above everything else, to the last breath in my body, I'm your friend and I want you to be happy. If I'd come in and found that you'd already cut yourself open.... I wouldn't be relieved or happy. I'd be devastated, and that's the truth. No matter what your depression is telling you right now. You wouldn't make my life easier by just taking yourself out of the equation. And maybe that's a burden, but maybe it should be. I'll fight for you. I'll fight for you to the last drop of my strength and beyond it. So don't you ever, _ever_ let that voice fucking tell you any different."

She searched his dark eyes, the almost fierce expression on his handsome face. "I don't know how to make it right," she whispered. "I don't know what I am."

"And we'll figure it out. We will." He stroked her cheek again. "I wish I could take the next few days away from you. All the pain. I know it's going to be hard. But you have so much that's waiting for you on the other side. We'll set up a meeting with Bess so you can meet her and visit her. You have an aunt we can track down. You have more, Nancy. We'll find something that you want to do, and you will find a way to be happy."

She slumped back down against him. "I have no money," she murmured. "No job. No real history. I feel useless and worthless and then I—there was _blood_..." She drew another trembling breath.

"I know." He stroked her back again. "But that was you when you were conditioned and programmed to carry out your missions. Not you now. Not you when you have a choice."

But she'd had a choice, no matter how hopeless and faint it had been. That was what scared her. It just didn't make sense. The first time, the first mission, why hadn't she refused? Why hadn't she just walked away, especially before her friend had become involved, if that was how it had happened?

She couldn't remember being recruited. She couldn't even remember how long ago that memory had been, not really. But if all the memories she had lost were like that one, then she understood what Ned had meant when he said that maybe this was better. Maybe it would have been better if that part of her never came back.

"It's all right. Just trust me. We'll make it through this together."

She had to trust someone, and it was so _fucking_ hard to hold anything back from him. She wanted to relax and rest in his arms and stop fighting, just for tonight. Tomorrow she could see how she felt.

She slowly lowered her head again, resting against him. The shirt she wore to sleep in had ridden up and a bare strip of skin low on her belly was pressed against his bare stomach.

Skin against skin. His lips against hers.

She loved him. Oh God, she loved him, and if he looked at her with disgust and disapproval in his eyes...

_I already know it all. Nothing is going to change how I feel about you._

Her shame and her sadness—it just hurt. She was still afraid, no matter what he said. She had found the first thing in her life, the first relationship, that she couldn't afford to lose.

Once he was asleep again, she couldn't have said why she did it, but she slowly began to work her hand out of the tie binding her to him. A part of her wondered if he would even feel it. A part of her wondered if it would somehow be proof of something.

"I don't want to tie you to the bedpost," he murmured, and she froze as soon as she heard him. "If you're uncomfortable we'll find something else, but I need you to stay with me. Did you need to go to the restroom?"

"No. Sorry."

He helped her work the tie off; then he wrapped his arms around her and held her to him, and she wrapped around him too, cuddling against him. "Shh," he whispered. "Shh. Sleep. Things will be better in the morning."

And finally, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart against hers, she slept and prayed she wouldn't dream.

\--

The next morning, Ned picked up the scissors and gazed down at them for a few seconds before he put them back in the drawer.

He had known it could be fast. He also knew that hiding a small pair of sharp scissors wouldn't stop her, if she decided to attempt suicide again. His kitchen was full of possible weapons. She could do serious damage if she just took all the cold and flu medication in his bathroom. She could steal his car and he would find her, sprawled like a broken doll, on the ice at the edge of Lake Michigan—

He bowed his head, his eyes closed, and took a long breath. She had made it through the first real night of her decompression, although it had been close. He prayed that today wouldn't be worse, even though he knew it likely would be.

She had been quiet the previous afternoon. She had seemed distracted. She had started remembering. And if she remembered whatever it was that she hadn't given her interrogators...

_No. I don't trust him._

Ned hated the idea that he could have invited someone into this who made her less than comfortable, who might be considering more than what was best for her. She needed to feel safe. He had seen what happened when she didn't feel safe.

Most of the soldiers who went through decompression, who transitioned back to something like a civilian life, went through their treatment at a center like Linkhaven. Ned didn't want to put her on the map that way. What she had said, though, made him wonder how many soldiers went through treatment and then dropped off entirely.

He went back into his bedroom and she ran her fingers through her hair before she went into his bathroom, and he hated to invade her privacy, but he listened for the telltale sounds, the soft hush of a drawer, the quiet metallic sound of the scissors. He didn't hear any, though.

She came back into his room and he looked up at her. He was sitting at the edge of his bed wearing only his boxers, hair rumpled, teeth brushed and face washed and nothing else. The press of her bare feet against the carpet was so light, so gentle. The thin skin just under her eyes was translucent, shadowed in blue by the veins behind. She looked tired and afraid and wounded.

But she sat down beside him and he drew her into his arms, and she came obediently, relaxing against him with a little sigh. He rubbed her back and nuzzled against her neck, and felt her fingertips drag lightly against the nape of his neck. The fabric of the shirt she wore was warm and thin and a little rumpled against his cheek.

He wanted her. But he wouldn't make the same mistake he had last time. He would wait until there was no question, no doubt, and if she felt the same way about him again, then they would deal with it. He didn't dare do anything now.

His brain understood. His heart didn't.

"Nancy, stay with me," he whispered, his lips brushing her neck. "Please stay with me. Don't go, not again."

She stroked his hair. "It's so hard," she whispered, finally. "I don't know how to do this."

"But we'll figure it out, together." She shifted and his lips were gently brushing her cheek. "I'll send him away if you tell me to. I want you to be safe."

She drew a trembling breath and he realized she was on the point of tears. "You will?"

"If that's what you want." He moved back and cupped her cheeks, gazing into her brimming eyes. "I'll find out what you'll need and we'll get through this together. Like we were before, alone together."

She closed her eyes, her lips parting, and bowed her head a little, and his forehead touched hers. "Please," she whispered. "I don't trust anyone else. Please."

"But you have to promise me, for sure this time. Last night... never again. Please."

A pair of tears streaked down her cheeks. "I feel like I'm coming out of my skin," she breathed, and then sniffled. "I'm so afraid, Ned."

He wrapped his arms around her again and held her tight. "It's going to be all right," he murmured. "It is. I love you."

She rested her wet face against his neck and sighed. "I love you too," she whispered.

Hearing her say that... he closed his eyes and just held her. He knew that she was upset, that he would just need to see what happened, that the most important thing right now was her mental health and making sure that she made it through the rest of her decompression without hurting herself. And then, afterward, if she felt the same way... he would take that day when it came.

He had wanted a life with her so much. Even a week ago, he had thought her permanently lost to him. He would never have believed this was possible.

Then his stomach rumbled a little, and he felt her lips quirk in a smile against his neck. "So that made you hungry?"

"Sorry." He moved back and cupped her cheeks, gazing into her eyes again. "I love you, and once you're through this, we'll talk about it. We'll have a lot to talk about." He smiled and brushed the traces of tears from her cheeks. "But first, breakfast."

Her small smile was brief. "I think he won't leave," she whispered.

"I..." He sighed. "I hope you're wrong."

Hank was sitting on the couch again. Ned had slept lightly, so he felt tired, his skin thin. Hank didn't look very well-rested either.

He stood up when they came into the living room, and his face, already somewhat pale, drained entirely of color. "She started remembering," he whispered. "Oh God. Oh God."

Neither of them answered. Nancy's fingers were already laced through his, and they tightened a little. "I was thinking about scrambled eggs for breakfast," Ned said, keeping his voice even. "Toast and bacon. Hank?"

Hank's gaze traveled between them, and he swallowed hard. "Okay," he murmured. "Shit."

Nancy handled preparing the toast. Ned spread slices of bacon on his microwave tray, then started cracking eggs. Hank set the table and poured the coffee, and the three of them sat down together, with Nancy's seat close to Ned's.

"How bad is it?" Hank asked quietly.

Ned rested his hand on Nancy's knee. "I don't think we should talk about it right now," he said. "Salt and pepper?"

Hank just shook his head. His plate was almost empty when his phone rang in the next room, and he rose with a quiet "Excuse me" to answer it.

Nancy had eaten half her eggs and taken a few bites of the buttered toast, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. "Do you mind if I listen to the recordings for a while?" she asked quietly, her gaze down. "I just... I can't, I can't do—that, again. What happened yesterday."

He patted her knee a few times. "That's fine. I understand. I don't think that should be a problem. I'll just need to be in the same room with you."

"Okay."

He kept his hand on her knee, and after a moment she looked up into his face. "I love you," he murmured.

The anxiety in her blue eyes faded a little, and she smiled at him. "I love you too," she whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you. I..." She glanced down again. "I'm sorry about last night."

He touched her chin. "You're going through a lot," he murmured. "I know it's scary, and I know it hurts. Just don't forget that you aren't alone, okay? I'm here for you and only you, for as long as you need me."

Her eyes shone with sudden tears. "Okay," she whispered.

Hank returned and Ned reluctantly looked away from her as she sniffled. He took his place at the table and picked up his fork, and a silence fell over all of them. Nancy managed a few more bites, then put her fork down and wrapped her palms around her coffee cup.

After they had cleared the breakfast table, Nancy went to the bedroom to dress, and Ned moved into the living room, listening to make sure nothing happened while she was in there. "Hank, I really appreciate you being here," he began.

Hank sighed. "But," he prompted.

"But she's anxious and upset and I think this would go better if it was just the two of us."

"And you can't be around her all the time, and she's fragile right now. Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Ned shrugged. "It's what she wants," he said. "I need to know how to finish this. But I think this would be the best thing for her."

Hank reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If she's started remembering—things are going to get worse. I don't know that you have the heart for it. I don't know if you can make yourself dig the splinter out of her."

"And how do I dig the splinter out?"

"Make her talk about what she's remembering. Reassure her. Make sure she doesn't turn that anger back on herself." Hank was studying Ned's face, and he paused then. "You've seen that happen with her before."

Ned couldn't speak. He just nodded once.

Hank sighed and rubbed his jaw. "She'll gain more control over herself; when she seems to be 'sobering up,' she needs to be given the medication to finish her transition. She's high-functioning for now. But she needs something to focus her energy on. Something to achieve outside this work. A new mission, in a way. And her only choice can't be living here with you and raising your children." Hank shook his head. "You have to give her the time and the space and the freedom to figure out what _she_ wants, to build her own life, and that's why it is such a terrible fucking situation."

"So this... the way she feels about me. It's not going to fade once she's finished decompressing."

Hank shook his head. "You broke the rule," he murmured. "You let yourself get involved with her. She needs a safe place and you've fucked it up. If this doesn't end well, if the two of you break up? What does she have? What support?"

"We'll find another therapist she can trust. I know I can't be that for her."

"But you will. And you'll carve your own heart out when she's sick. When you see that look in her eyes and you know that she wants to end it. Your heart is walking around outside your body right now, and you really think that you won't want to cage it? Keep it safe and yours alone? And if she finds someone else, Ned? If you aren't the center of her world anymore?"

Ned's hand was already clenched in a fist at his side.

"You aren't even _officially_ in the program anymore. You won't be able to find her a therapist who can even listen to what she did. It's all classified."

"Then why the hell did you respond when I called you?" Ned shot back. "If all this is against the rules and illegal. Why bother helping?"

Hank's face was set in hard lines; at Ned's outburst, those lines began to soften to something almost sad. "For her," he said quietly. "Because I knew her when she was first starting. Because this is no life for anyone."

"And that's why I'm here," Ned replied. "She came to me. She was suicidal and lost and alone and she somehow found her way to me. We had fucking given her up for _dead_ and she found me. I have broken every fucking rule in the book when it comes to her and I don't give a _damn_ about the rules now. I'm in this for her and for those other people who were broken and twisted and turned into their own worst nightmares. She had her _life_ taken away.

"If I have to sleep with her attached to me for the rest of my life, I will. If I have to hold her while she cries and listen to everything she's lost as it comes back to her, I will. And part of me knows this is crazy. That what's between us—it's impossible, it's too soon. But I love her. She's worth more than just saving.

"I didn't deserve to have a second chance at this, but you can fucking bet I'm not walking away from it. I'm all she's got, Hank. Compromised or not, I'm all she's got, and I am never, ever going to walk away from her again."

Hank's expression changed, and Ned turned to see that Nancy was standing in his doorway, silent, a little flushed. Her eyes were shining when she looked at him. The flash media player he had given her was clutched in her fist.

Immediately the tension and the fight drained out of him, and he turned fully toward her. "Hey," he murmured. "You okay?"

She nodded slowly, her gaze locked to his face.

"We're all right," he said quietly. "It's okay."

He reached out for her hand and she came to him, still looking at him. When he wrapped his arms around her, she relaxed against him, putting her arms around him too.

Hank clearly wanted to continue their argument, but he didn't want to do it in front of Nancy. Once she had settled into the recliner, Ned brought her a blanket and she smiled her thanks, the earbuds already seated in her ears. He could keep an eye on her from the kitchen, so he went in there to tidy up and figure out what groceries they needed. Hank followed him, his expression pensive.

"I suppose there's nothing I could say to you."

Ned shook his head, his mouth set as he studied the contents of the refrigerator. He had used the last of the eggs, and he wanted to make something special with her. Maybe cupcakes. She might like that, and they weren't too complicated.

Hank cleared his throat. "And what will you do if it comes back?" he murmured. "What they tried to cut out of her. What will you do?"

Ned shrugged and glanced over at Hank. "Whatever she wants me to do."

"Assuming you live long enough."

Ned raised his eyebrows. "You really think it would go that far."

Hank shrugged. "I know what they're capable of doing. I know what they have done. She bears the scars of it, and I know that if they're that afraid of it, they'll finish the job."

Ned turned toward his mentor and crossed his arms. "What answer are you looking for?"

Hank shook his head. "She came to you and pulled you into wonderland, and then she was gone. I think she left your life because she didn't want _this_ to happen. If it's starting to unravel..."

"Stop just trying to scare me. I need solutions, not scare tactics."

Hank took a step toward him. "For fuck's sake, don't you understand—I don't _have_ any solutions. Unravel what's in her head and you might find the poison at the heart of it, and it might mean that both of you are in danger. Leave it there and she'll stay sick the rest of her life. You'll never be able to sleep soundly, knowing she might creep out of your arms and you'll never see her on this side again. You won't be able to take a breath without her, and you'll start resenting it."

"So what was your plan, then? You were going to be the one taking her through decompression. You were going to be the one in danger, apparently."

"They need to think she doesn't remember."

"And that's the trick?"

Hank took another step toward him. "Until you have something they fear _more_ , then yes. You have no leverage now. It would be something simple and innocuous. A car accident, a gas leak."

Ned's eyebrows went up again. "Then we would need help."

"If you have a prayer of a chance, yeah. You will." Hank smoothed his hair, glancing down. Gathering his strength. "When I tell them, I'll leave this out. They'll find out; you need to know that. It will only buy you time, and you have to be careful."

"I thought you were out. I thought you had just called in a few favors..."

Hank shrugged slightly. "I can tell from what was done to her that she's high-value," he murmured. "I don't know what they want from her. But this is the window, and once it's closed, it will be harder to re-open. I'm inclined to think that's a good thing. We just can't wait too long."

Ned opened his pantry door to check what he needed, and his shoulders slumped. "I thought you were out," he murmured again. "I thought I could keep her safe."

Hank's expression wasn't grim, but it might as well have been. "There's no force in this world that I know of that can keep her safe," he told Ned. "They went to a _lot_ of trouble. She needs to be able to live without constantly looking over her shoulder. And that will happen, one way or another."

They just needed to think that she didn't remember.

She was reluctant to remember anything more about her time in the program. The recordings they had made dealt almost exclusively with her life before she had come into it. Leave it alone, and the time bomb would remain set and ticking. Pull it out of her and the threat would come not from within, but without.

He didn't want to hurt her. Oh God, he didn't want to hurt her. He was the only person she trusted anymore, and he had seen how close she was to breaking the night before.

"George. The girl on her team. Did you find out anything about her?"

Hank released a long breath. "The only female member of her team who fit your description was killed in action, according to all the information I could find," he said. "Granted, there's always a possibility that she's in a similar situation, but I didn't find any trace of her. I'm inclined to believe the official story. I'm sorry."

"I guess it was too much to hope for." Ned rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn't seem to focus on anything, on any specific recipe. "God. She went back in to save her..."

"It might do damage, to dig the splinter out," Hank said quietly. "I just don't think you're ready. I don't know if you ever would be, with her."

Ned glanced over at Hank. "Imagine," he said quietly. "She has no one and nothing in this world, and she had one person in her life who only wanted to find out something she clearly wishes she could forget, and then that person abandoned her. That was all the value she had in anyone's life. She's just as desperate as they would have wanted her to be. She needs somewhere she can belong. And then, once it was over, once she had finally managed to give up the only part of her that was worth anything to anyone else... you would be in her life for a little while, and then you would be gone. She would be left alone again. You would have just scooped the last bit of her out and left her hollow.

"But that splinter? Is worthless to me. All I want is to pull it out so she can heal. So yeah, maybe it won't be any fun. But I'll be there on the other side of it, to help her recover.

"Maybe I am too close, but I don't care. I'll give her everything I can. Always."

Hank crossed his arms, just gazing at Ned wordlessly for a long moment. Ned waited as long as he could.

"Go ahead. Tell me I'm being an idiot."

Hank shook his head slowly. "When I met you, I knew this would eat you alive," he murmured. "That you had trouble leaving it at work and walking away without carrying at least some of it home. I knew you were lonely, and I thought that if I threw her your way that night, it just might intrigue you enough to get you into the program. But I never dreamed it would turn into this.

"You need someone to fix, and she needs fixing."

"She's not a damn broken watch."

"No," Hank agreed. "She's not. But this just might turn into your obsession. Helping her. Rebuilding her. But you... you have no idea, Ned. What they do, what they're capable of doing. You aren't ready."

Ned shrugged once. "All I can do is try."

Hank sighed. "You look like you're making a grocery list."

"Yeah. Need to restock, especially if this is going to last a few more days." Ned ran his fingers through his hair.

"I can go."

Ned shrugged. He knew he couldn't leave Nancy alone, but he also thought it might be good for her to go on a little outing. "Let me see if she wants to go with me. I can make some lunch first, though."

He was relieved when Hank left him alone for a while, but when Hank went to the guest bedroom, Ned found himself wondering what his mentor was doing, if he was talking to someone who was still in the program. Despite Hank's assurance, Nancy's doubt was affecting Ned. Hank said he would do what he could, but Ned had little faith in that.

He sat down in the armchair; Nancy was on the long couch, an afghan draped over her, still listening to the player Ned had given her. He heard a crinkling in the kitchen and went there to find Oscar playing with a plastic grocery bag. The cat turned wide, startled green eyes on Ned, and Ned smiled, despite his worry.

He took the grocery pad with him to the living room and sat down again, making a new list.

_-Pho Tet_

_-George_

_-Yesterday's trigger_

_Relaxation and occupational therapy_

She didn't want the splinter to come out. Ned understood. But it would only be worse later; that, at least, he did believe.

About an hour later, he heard Nancy sigh and sit up, and he turned toward her. She rubbed her face, and he could see the wet tracks of a few tears. "Hey," he murmured.

"Hey," she whispered, and tugged the earbuds out of her ears, then rubbed them a few times. "He's still here."

"Yeah. We need groceries, and he offered to go to the store, but I thought maybe you and I might go. Just to get out of the house for a little while." He searched her face, knowing his hope was foolish. "When we did this before, some nights we would go outside to stargaze and just talk." He shrugged.

"Oh." She glanced down at her disheveled sweatshirt. "I don't know."

"It's a small place. Not a lot of people. I'll be with you the whole time." He kept his voice quiet. "It's all right if you say no."

She ran her fingers through her hair and combed it back from her face. "Okay," she whispered.

As soon as Nancy was with him in the car and they were alone, away from Hank, he saw her relax a little. She was bundled into her new coat, and he made a note to take her to another store, just to make sure she had enough clothing too. Whenever he tried to conceive of it, of being completely without a home or anyone who cared about him or loved him... he thought of all he would miss, all he would need. But she had no frame of reference. She could only feel loss.

"Feeling okay?"

She nodded. "Thanks," she whispered. "Ned, I'm sorry. I... you're putting your life on hold just to help me. I'm sorry."

He reached over and gently squeezed her gloved hand in his for a moment. "Hey, it's no big deal. Once you're through this and transitioned out, you can start figuring out what you want to do. You'll feel better. And we can be a part of each other's lives. It'll be good." He flashed a reassuring smile at her. "It'll be good, Nan."

The market wasn't entirely empty, but it wasn't nearly as busy as he had seen it just after work. Nancy walked with him as they pushed the cart around, sorting through sweet potatoes and baking potatoes, picking out steaks and crackers and pasta, checking eggs. Then Ned saw a woman smile at them, and he recognized the look in her eyes.

She thought they were a couple.

His heart suddenly ached.

"We should get you some more clothes," he told her. "But we'll have to drop off this food first. And we can wait. I think you're okay for now."

"Yeah," she murmured. "I think I'm okay. Did you... did you talk to him?"

"I did. I think he's getting used to the idea. He's just afraid for you. Afraid for both of us."

She shivered, and he slid his arm around her shoulders, his steps slowing a little. "Me too," she whispered. "I don't want to think about it anymore. I just..." She swallowed and glanced down.

"It's all right."

She shook her head. "I don't know who I am," she whispered. "And I... I was so lost when I woke up in the hospital after the acci—after," she corrected herself, "but this feels worse. I can't believe what—what that person I used to be, did. I don't want to remember anymore. I don't want to know any more." She sighed. "I don't want to be that person ever again."

Ned closed his eyes briefly, but he rubbed her shoulder to comfort her. "It's all right."

It took him a while to pick up on all the clues, but he realized that what seemed to be her impatience wasn't. She gravitated to the cheapest options, and she bypassed anything that wasn't a staple unless he stopped there. He saw her marveling at the cart, and then the guilty expression on her face. She hadn't lived with much money as Andrea. She hadn't had the means to splurge much. He could tell that from the clothes in her suitcase, from the timid way she dealt with food, how she kept apologizing.

When they were slowly making their way to checkout, for the first time he could remember, she reached for his hand and held it. She had reached for him when she had first started decompression, but since then, she had seemed to wait for him to initiate contact. It made his heart rise a little, in the hopes that her feelings for him wouldn't just fade when she transitioned out, that she might make it through his removal of that splinter without permanently damaging what they had.

The sky was a sullen pale gray, the wind a bitter cold. They were both shivering as they slid into the car, and Ned rubbed his hands together as Nancy's teeth chattered. He cranked the heat up and reached for her hands, then rubbed them with his own.

She chuckled, though her teeth were still chattering.

"Hmm?"

She shook her head. "Why is it so hard to stop myself from talking to you?" she murmured. "All the food you just bought..."

He shrugged and blew on their joined hands, then rubbed hers again. "I like to eat," he said. "Don't worry about it. Besides, I like having someone else to cook for."

"Do you cook for people very often?"

He gazed into her steady blue eyes and shook his head. "Not very often," he told her. "Friends, sometimes. Girlfriends, sometimes. But I like cooking with you. Do you like it too?"

She nodded, and then her gaze fell to their hands. "I haven't had much experience," she murmured, and then she chuckled bitterly. "Or maybe I have. Who the hell knows."

"Hey, it's all right. No big deal. I'm glad you like it."

She took a deep breath. "I don't like it when people touch me," she murmured, and then she looked into his face. "But I want you to touch me. When I feel upset I want you to hold me. And I..." She took a shivering breath and her voice cracked as her eyes filled with tears. "And I've never wanted anything like that before. I... I'm so afraid of losing you. I don't know what to do..."

He wrapped his arms around her, as awkward as it was across the seats, and wished that he could really take her into his arms. "You're not gonna lose me," he murmured. "Not now and not ever. I'd be happy to sleep beside you every night for the rest of our lives. It's all right."

"But you want me to be her," Nancy whispered, and her voice was still shaking. "Tell me who you want me to be. Tell me who I need to be so I can stay..."

He moved back to look into her face, cupped her cheeks and brushed her tears away with his thumbs, his own throat aching. "I would never make you _be_ anyone," he told her, his voice gruff. "I just want you to be happy."

She shook her head, her eyes widening. "You were happy with her," she said. "With who I was. Tell me how to be her again. I just... I can't..."

He stroked her cheeks. "It's okay," he said. "Nan, I understand that everything... that this is really hard. So let's go home and put the groceries away and talk about it."

She sniffled. "I can't talk around him," she whispered. "I can't be weak around him."

"Then we'll go somewhere else. And I'll talk to him. It's all right."

He put the car in drive and began navigating through the half-plowed parking lot. "I don't know who I am," she murmured. "I feel like I'm in someone else's skin. There are things I know but I don't know _how_. I don't remember ever learning how to drive, but I got behind the wheel of the hatchback—" She made a sharp noise that was almost a sob. "The car they _gave_ me when they faked my life, and I knew how to drive it. I'm good with computers but I don't know _how_. I can go through the fucking motions but if I think about it too hard it all falls apart and I'm just fucking—" She sucked in a sharp breath again. "I'm just fucking standing there staring at my hands and they aren't _mine_ and... and I feel like a ghost. I feel like everything that made me who I was is gone now, and I just don't know what to do. But if you tell me... if you tell me what I should be, who I... who I can be... I've just been so lost. And I didn't even understand what I was missing until I met you."

He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. "I didn't know what I was missing until I met you, either," he told her. "When I was with you before, you pushed me beyond what I ever thought I could do. Being with you, it made me a different person. Even from our first meeting, you... you changed me. I think... Nan, I don't want to tell you who to be. I want to... I want to see who we are together. I think that you've been trying to find a purpose for your life, and for a while, you were mine."

"But not now."

He glanced over at her again. "Last week I thought you were dead," he told her. "My heart broke over it. I missed you so, so damn much. I can't believe how lucky I am, that you're here again.

"H—Dr. Estigan told me that we—that you and I, we need to find that splinter buried in your mind and pull it out so you can heal. I know it'll hurt. I know it'll be hard. But then you can start to see who you are without it. If you're still depressed, and you want, we can try out some medications or some other therapists I know. But all that matters to me is getting you past this. Has it helped to listen to the recordings? Or..."

She sniffled. "Yeah," she murmured. "Is it strange, that I hear the warmth in your voice on the recordings and I feel jealous? Of someone _I was_? She made choices I can't fathom at all, but she—she had _memories._ She _knew_ there were people who loved her."

Ned stroked her hand with his thumb. "And I love you. I know that may not be worth much."

She wiped her nose and shook her head. "It's everything," she whispered. "I mean it. It's everything. And I hate that I'm so, so afraid of losing you."

Ned carefully parked his car on the ice in his driveway, and together he and Nancy began to unload groceries. "His car's gone," she commented quietly, and Ned wondered if he had gone out to buy something for lunch, or on an errand. He probably didn't feel all that useful as the person only quasi-supervising Nancy's decompression, and not doing it himself.

Once they were finished unpacking and putting everything away, Ned finally felt close to warm again. Oscar rubbed against him, then meowed at Nancy, and he nodded toward the cat treats. "You can give him one or two if you want," he said. "But then he'll never leave you alone."

Nancy smiled. He could still see the traces of tears on her face, and it broke his heart. "Want one of these, Oscar?" she said to him, and he looked up at her expectantly.

He was going to need her in the bathroom while he showered. He was going to need to be in the bathroom with her while she showered. He couldn't leave her alone. It was something he had known even during her first decompression, but she had been relatively stable then, and he had only kept that close an eye on her for the first few days. Now, though...

He left her briefly while she was crouched over in the kitchen, gently scratching under Oscar's chin, and went to his bedroom. The bed was made, just as it had been, but he hadn't noticed that Nancy had put Snowball between the pillows before, perched there almost expectantly. He slipped out of his shoes, then checked the kitchen table, the coffee table, the kitchen counter to see if Hank had left a note. The house felt different without him in it. Ned hoped it would help ease Nancy's mind, even though a part of him was deeply afraid of being the only person who might stand between her and a moment of suicidal weakness.

He tapped on the door of the guest bedroom before opening it, and saw that the bed was made, too—and the sheets had been stripped off the bed. Hank's luggage was gone. Everything was back in order, and it was almost as though he had never been there.

Nancy looked up when Ned came back into the kitchen, and her eyes widened when she saw his face. "What's wrong?"

"All Hank's stuff is gone. I guess he took me seriously." Ned tried to give her a small smile, but he couldn't help thinking about it. Hank was in contact with people in the program. If he wanted, if he changed his mind, he could alert them to Nancy's fragile state, and they could have even less time than Ned had begun to imagine they might.

If they took her, if they came after her...

Ned swallowed hard. Nancy knew how to read his face, though, and she stood.

"I'm sorry. You didn't want him to go..."

"It's not that. I meant it when I told you that I wanted you to feel safe. It's all right." Ned ran his fingers through his hair. "I'll try to call him in a little while. No problem."

She nodded slowly, and he saw some fine fluttering in her fingers, and stepped closer to her. She swallowed and reached for his hand. "Please tell me," she whispered.

Ned reached up with his other hand and cupped her cheek, gently stroking his thumb against her soft, tear-dampened skin. "I'll keep you safe," he whispered. "No matter what. We'll find a place where we can be safe."

She took a step toward him and he wrapped his arms fully around her, stroking her back as she draped her arms over his shoulders, folding them around him too. "Just don't leave me," she whispered. "Please don't leave me."

"I won't." His lips brushed her neck.

When they finally, slowly parted, Ned tried to ignore the tangible response he had felt to her closeness, to the attraction between them. If only he didn't know how it felt, to have her body tangled around his, how soft her skin felt beneath his lips and fingertips... but he did, and a part of him couldn't help believing Hank. It would break his heart if the intimacy she had begged him to show her somehow hurt her now.

"Let me go wash my face," she murmured, and Oscar darted to Ned's bedroom door as they headed for it.

They were entirely alone, as far as he knew—and that made him remember that Hank had recommended that safe house so long ago, and it had been extensively bugged. They had known that he had violated the rules for Nancy back then, and they might have thought she could come to him for help. He made a mental note to do a check, and that helped distract him as he followed her into his bedroom. They were alone. Hank wasn't around to overhear anything, not any screaming or any crying, or any of it...

"Oh. That was sweet of you." Nancy turned her head to give him a small smile.

"Hmm?"

She shrugged at the bed. "Snowball," she murmured.

"You didn't leave it there?"

She shook her head.

A chill went down Ned's spine. He slowly walked over to the bed, and then gently picked up Nancy's stuffed cat, telling himself that he was being ridiculous. It was just a strange coincidence. Maybe Oscar had played with Snowball while they were gone.

Except that he had been shut out of Ned's bedroom.

Nancy was beside him when he looked down. "Shit," he whispered.

"It's—it's not a bomb, is it?"

Ned shook his head. Nancy didn't sound upset, but calm.

Under her stuffed cat, he saw a biometric case. It was very similar to the one he had taken with them when she had first come to him and asked him for the medication she would need to carry out her mission, but this one was flashing, waiting to be programmed. Before he thought about it, he pressed his thumb against it, and the case beeped in acceptance. Then it opened.

Inside Ned found various pills—he recognized a handful of them as black beauties—and a note.

_The black beauties will partially reactivate her for a day, instead of the two-year dose. She'll regain most of her capabilities for that day. I can't be sure of what impact they might have on her memory loss. Be careful with them._

_Once she finishes decompression, she doesn't need to immediately transition. She has some time. But once she takes the yellow pills, one a day for three days, the black beauties won't work on her. She can't be reactivated. Her brain chemistry will permanently change. She might still need treatment for depression after transitioning, though._

_At that time you need to establish her support—and that_ can't _just be you. She will need a therapist, other than you. She will need to form relationships with other people,_ other _than you. Ultimately it might be better for her if you and she both move on. That depends on her and what she needs, and that is_ always _more important than you._

_I'll do what I can. Please be careful._

Nancy was reading the note along with him; when he finished it and glanced over at her, her eyes were full of tears. "Please don't," she whispered. "Please don't make me go. Please..."

He reached for her again and held her, sitting down on the bed with her, and she wrapped herself around him. He felt her breath against his neck and closed his eyes.

He didn't know how he would do it. He didn't know how he was going to find the strength to dig that splinter out of her, if just the sight of her eyes gleaming with tears was enough to rip his heart in half.

"It's all right," he murmured, and stroked her hair. "Shh. It's all right. I promise. I won't let you go."


	10. Chapter 10

"Harder."

Nancy was trying not to dig her fingernails into her palms. She was trying to focus on something, anything else, and it had been all she could do to be honest when Ned had asked her if she was still feeling upset.

All the blood. All the fucking blood. George's pale, lifeless face, closed eyes. She had never felt pain like that, never, not in all her life. It felt like everything had been hollowed out of her, replaced by howling, roaring grief.

She wanted to hurt herself. She wanted to find the scissors, a knife, a razor, anything. She needed to pay. She needed a pain that she could control.

So Ned had compromised with her. She was in his bed, wearing only her panties, curled up in the fetal position on her stomach. She hadn't been able to bear the idea of sleeping in the dark, and so the lamp was on, but he had put it across the room, at the edge of his dresser.

He had taken a pen, and was using the blunt end of it to draw on her bare skin, in hard spirals and swirls. She could feel the line smarting as he drew it. But her heart still ached.

"Better?"

_No._ She drew a shivering breath and couldn't bring herself to answer.

She was worse than a monster. She had known that what she did was wrong. She had known. He had said it was like a splinter, but it was like he had taken an axe and just split her down the middle, then set about destroying the pieces. She didn't want to know anymore. She didn't want to _live_ anymore. And once he went to sleep, it would take every bit of strength in her to resist the temptation again.

When a few minutes had passed, silently, the dragging of the pen became lighter, then tapered off completely. She heard it click a little as he dropped it onto the bedside table. Then he rubbed his large warm palm against her smarting back, and she wanted to scream. She needed pain. That was all she deserved; that would drive back the awful feelings for a while. Cutting had been a way to focus on something else, to inflict wounds that would heal, even if her misery never did.

"Shh," he murmured. "You're not her. You just needed to let it out. Now you can let it go. You can let it go. All the pain and fear. All those awful memories. You aren't her anymore. It all happened to someone else.

"I know you loved your friend."

That terrible, consuming grief had told her what it would feel like, to lose him. She had clung to George. She had been lost without her. Why would anyone ever want to feel love, when it would end like that? When it could end...

She would be lost without Ned. She would have died, without him.

"Yes," she whispered, and then she was sobbing again, like she had been for almost all afternoon. She had cried silently under the shower head when they had been preparing to go to bed, and he had been on the other side of the curtain, waiting to make sure she didn't hurt herself. She drew her limbs in tighter, making herself as small as she could, wishing that by sheer will she could snap her own bones.

He just kept stroking her back, up to the nape of her neck, down to the small of her back, the curves of her shoulder blades. He traced her ribs, and his touch was gentle, not the pain she knew she needed.

He had already caused her so much pain, with all that he had put her through today. She could tell that he had tried to be gentle with her, but it hadn't helped. Nothing had.

He had told her that maybe it was better if she never remembered. She believed him now; she had believed him then, too. On the other side of this... She didn't know if there would ever be another side. She felt like she was trapped in a night that would never end.

He rubbed her shoulders, and then he sat down. "Come here," he whispered, and she sniffled and rubbed her wet cheeks before she moved into his arms. She had cried so much that her eyes were still puffy and bloodshot, and they stung as she cried again. His chest was bare and she was almost naked, and he held her tight, still stroking her back.

"I think the worst of it's over," he told her. "I know that might not be comforting at all."

"It isn't," she whispered. "I don't want to wake up. I don't want any of this in my head. Oh my God."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She sniffled again. "What if he told you to do this to drive me crazy," she whispered. "Because I... oh, oh God..."

He dropped a kiss on her shoulder, and even though he seemed to radiate heat, she still shivered. He moved with her beneath the comforter, and as upset as she felt, she still clung to him.

He hadn't sealed that poison under her skin, deep in her mind, and left it for her to find; even so, she was still hurt. Maybe she would never have remembered...

Or maybe it would have come to her in dreams, in pieces, until she would have walked to another frozen lake and imagined the temporary pain, and then the release—and then done more than just imagined it. A week ago, she had only felt lost. Now she felt ripped to shreds.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don't._

It was fitting. The person she had been... there was no way she could have been good, and yet. And yet.

He stroked her back. "When you wake up in the morning, you choose your life," he told her softly. "You choose what you want to do and where you want to go. All you share with who you were is a body. Okay? And if you're sad and upset, I understand. This won't be finished overnight." He kissed her forehead. "But you deserve to be happy, Nan. Make your peace with what happened, and close the door on it."

He said it like it was so easy, like it was just a choice she could make. She was so sad that she didn't know how she would ever be able to forget, to treat it like a dream, like something that had happened to someone else.

Then he stroked his hand down her arm, down to her elbow, and his thumb brushed the scars from the razor, the pale raised lines on her inner arms. At least those felt almost familiar.

She waited for him to say something to her, to say that what she had done was wrong. To tell her again that she was never allowed to hurt herself. She had been so miserable when her past had been a mystery to her; now, though, that felt endurable. It had been better when she hadn't known.

That blood she had spilled, she could never take back.

He moved under the covers and nuzzled against her skin, brushing his lips against the scars she had left there. She closed her eyes as he kissed all the places she had dragged the razor across her skin, and he found them all by touch; he found the scars behind her knees, her inner thighs, and she parted her legs to him, letting him kiss her skin.

He had made love to her.

He had been one of the only sources of light in her life. She had found him in the rain, and she had been desperate, but she didn't know why...

_"I will give you anything you want. For the rest of my life."_

"Ned," she whispered, and when he kissed her belly, she closed her eyes and ran her fingers through his hair, still a little damp from their recent showers. "Ned..."

He kissed his way up, between her breasts, up her neck, and it was the first time anyone had ever touched her that way—but she could feel it, at the edge of her bruised, tired mind, that it wasn't. His hands on wet skin...

She bowed her head and her bare breasts, her nipples tight, brushed against his chest, and she shivered. He kissed her temple, his arm over her side.

"Please don't stop," she whispered.

"Is it better?"

"Yes please don't stop," she whispered.

It had been good. It had felt good. She knew that, even if she couldn't remember it in anything other than brief flashes of emotion, the loving expression on his face...

He kissed the corner of her mouth, and then she turned her head and brushed her lips against his, her arms around his shoulders. Hank had told him not to do this, but she had been able to see it in him, had seen it in his eyes when she woke in his arms. He had stayed in the bathroom while she was in the shower, and then he had moved into the shower right after she had. They had been naked in the same room.

She couldn't remember seeing him naked. She couldn't remember being with him this way.

She was aching and raw and afraid, and the morning could dawn bright or even darker; she didn't know. He had seen all of her and he was _good_ , genuinely a good guy, and she had hidden _nothing_ from him. And he still loved her.

If it was going to happen, she needed it to happen now. She needed to see what rock bottom was. She needed to push until he told her gently that it wasn't right, that he couldn't, that their relationship couldn't be this way. That he loved her like a sister or a friend, that his feelings had died when that version of her had. That he hadn't known _everything._

That she wasn't enough and she never would be.

Instead he gave her her first real kiss, deep and slow, his tongue in her mouth and his breath against her cheek. He had kissed her inner thighs and now the join of her thighs felt tender; every brush of his skin against her pebbled nipples made her feel so terribly aware that it was almost painful.

It was so strange, to know that he had kissed her before. That her first kiss wasn't under moonlight, at the end of a stilted mildly romantic date, or in some other normal scenario. Instead, she was practically naked in his bed and she was destroyed and heavy with sadness and he was her _therapist_...

And she didn't care. She just didn't care.

He moved onto his back, gently cupping the back of her head as she returned the kiss with gentle swipes of her tongue against his, learning him, feeling him shift under her. His other hand slid down her spine, then beneath the elastic of her panties, until he was cupping her bare ass.

"Take them off?" She was a little breathless when she pulled back.

He nodded, pushing them down a little at the side, and she moved to help him, a flush rising in her cheeks. She felt awkward and less than graceful as she shifted her weight and her breasts jiggled; she didn't know how to be seductive, and it would have been a lie anyway. She just knew that the feel of his bare skin against hers made her lightheaded, and the euphoria was helping her focus on something else, and she needed that so, so much.

She would have started crying again if he had looked at her with pity, but she saw tenderness and desire in his eyes. "Don't do anything that makes you uncomfortable," he told her. "Nan..."

"Are you uncomfortable?"

He shook his head. "I know I... oh God, baby, I missed you, I missed you so much..."

She laid down beside him and cupped his cheek. "I wish I had found you as soon as I woke up," she whispered. "But... you're here with me now. And as much as today hurt, as much as I wish... I wish I'd never had to go through it, but we're alive. And I missed you so much. Maybe it wouldn't have been easier, but at least I would have had someone..."

Her voice cracked at the end of it, and he drew her to him, drawing in a deep breath when she draped her leg over his hip. "I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much. I wish I'd been there for you. I'm so sorry."

She was completely spent, down to her bones, and she wrapped herself around him and closed her eyes and nestled against his chest. Her head was pillowed by his upper arm and his heart was beating steadily against hers, and he wore only a pair of boxers.

"Can you sleep?" he whispered, and gently stroked her hair. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she whispered. "I'll be okay."

He kissed her forehead and her temple, the blankets pulled up to cover her bare shoulders, and his skin was so warm. Slowly she began to drift away, although for a while she felt a pressure against the join of her thighs, through his boxers. Ned seemed a little tense, but slowly he relaxed too, his palm against her back.

Her last nearly-coherent thought was a prayer that she would not dream.

\--

Ned felt her wake with a start against him.

He also woke up still clad in the same pair of thin cotton boxers, which was a blessing. When she had been on top of him, kissing him... if they had both ended up naked, he didn't know what would have happened. She hadn't responded confidently or eagerly, but cautiously and slowly. Even after everything else she had remembered, that part hadn't come back to her.

It had been a few hours of a very emotional day in a sea of traumatic experiences, he reminded himself. After weeks and months and _years_ of tension and horror and fear. She had remembered his face, though. At least that was something.

Maybe tomorrow would be worse, maybe there was more to discover, but she had wanted to self-harm earlier. He couldn't sleep soundly knowing that. To wake in his bed alone, to find her gone...

He felt her wake, and he heard the strangled cry that she stifled in her throat. She was shaking so hard that the mattress trembled along with her. He started to reach for her, but she sat up before his fingertips made contact with her still-bare skin, moving away from him.

"Nan," he whispered, and when she turned back toward him, he saw that her eyes were shining again, and she looked so anxious and sad. "Come here."

She sniffled, reaching up to rub her face, shivering harder; the room was chilly, and she was still completely naked. It was everything Hank had cautioned him about, but he had reached a point when he wanted to offer her comfort, any comfort he could. Being with him this way, at least, was a comfort to her.

"Bathroom."

His heart sank, and he sat up, tossing the covers back over the bed to retain their heat as he slid out of it too. He couldn't let her be alone, as humiliating as she might find the experience.

"I'm..." She trailed off and made a quiet, almost disgusted noise deep in her throat. He kept his eyes above the small of her back as he followed her into the bathroom, closing the door behind them. Instead of staring at her, he busied himself at the sink, meeting his own gaze in the mirror.

He looked tired, his hair rumpled.

He had lived with women before. He had shared space, set aside dresser drawers and closet space, smiled when he saw a second toothbrush in the holder and a pair of discarded earrings on a shelf of the bookcase. There had been intimacy, sharing, love there—but it hadn't been like this. His previous girlfriends had always felt like they were sharing him with his patients, and this was light-years beyond that. He had shown them as much tenderness and support as he could, but when a client or patient called, he couldn't ignore it.

He had devoted entire _days_ of his life to Nancy, and he hadn't done that in a relationship since he was at Emerson. He had put his life to the side to be with her, to see her through this. And he couldn't regret it, not at all. Never.

She flushed the toilet and he moved over to it as she washed her hands, taking his turn too. When he turned back to her, she was covering her breasts with one arm, using the other hand to wipe her wet cheeks. She proceeded him into the bedroom, and her head was down, the fingers of her other hand trembling.

She moved under the comforter and the sheet, covering herself to her nose, and he moved to his usual place. She was on her back and he felt her trembling, but she didn't move toward him.

"Do you want to hurt yourself? Did you dream something?"

She closed her eyes and didn't respond for a moment, and he didn't press her. The trembling he could feel from the mattress became more violent, briefly. "Yes," she breathed.

She was coming out of decompression, although it was slow. She had better impulse control, now. And he could remember all too well what had happened the last time she had come out of decompression. His last glimpse of her, her blue eyes flat and sharp, and she had been a stranger.

He moved onto his side, and gently touched her belly with his fingertips. She tensed a little, then relaxed. When he slowly dragged his fingertips over her skin, in a soft scratch, she tensed again, moving so her chin was above the comforter, and her lips parted.

His heart was beating harder as he moved under the comforter, sliding down, and kissed the skin between her breasts, then the undersides. His fingertips brushed the top of her pubic hair, and he closed his eyes as he gently moved his hand down to cup the join of her thighs. He nuzzled against her breast, brushing his lips against her nipple, then drawing it into his mouth.

She whimpered loudly when he suckled against her nipple. "Ned," she moaned, and brought her hand up to cup the back of his head. "Oh my _God_..."

He stroked the flesh between her thighs without parting the lips of her sex or penetrating her, while he nuzzled her breasts and suckled against her nipples. She opened her legs and he trailed kisses down to her belly button; when his fingertip accidentally grazed the warm, slick inner lip of her sex, she gasped, arching.

He moved back up, his knees between her legs, kissing her breasts, her breastbone, her shoulders, her collarbones, her throat. His jaw tightened when he remembered how she had responded when he had fondled her clit, before, and she ran her fingers through his hair, her eyes glowing with desire when he moved over her. "Nan," he whispered. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

She searched his eyes. "Okay," she whispered.

And he leaned down to kiss her, and she bent her knees and pulled her heels toward her, shifting the angle of her hips. A tingle went down his spine, a shudder down hers, as his fingertip slid against the lips of her sex again, up until he found the firm button of her clit—

She cried out, and his tongue was in her mouth, and her hips twisted. He pulled back to brush a soft kiss against her lips, and she wrapped her arm around his shoulders, her lips wet and red from his kiss.

"Love," she whispered. "Making love..."

He nodded. "Making love," he murmured. She moaned loudly, tipping her head back, as his fingertip glanced against her clit again. "Do you remember, Nan? Making love with me?"

"No," she whispered, and then she made a sound that was such perfectly naked _need_ that his balls tightened. "Just... the rain..."

"Yeah," he said quietly, and his lips turned up a little. "The rain. No hurting, Nan. No pain. Just love, and pleasure. Shh..."

She tensed, her nails raking lightly over his shoulder blades, every time his fingertip glanced against her clit; he kissed her neck, feeling her pulse beat under her skin, and worked his way down again. She moaned loudly when he fondled her clit as he suckled her nipples, and when he guided his fingertip down just to brush against her opening, he found her wet.

When he imagined kissing his way down to the join of her thighs, going down on her until she was sobbing and arched and clinging to him, making her come, making her scream in pleasure—

_Making love._

He suckled and gently closed his teeth around her nipples, brushing his thumb against her slick, warm opening before he rubbed the evidence of her arousal against her clit; she arched, her fingers threading through his hair, her hand pressing against his shoulder blades as he slid his index finger inside her, slowly, meeting resistance and then slippery tenderness as she became more aroused.

She sobbed, but it was in pleasure, not pain or fear. He moved over her, and he gazed into her eyes as he slowly worked his finger in and out of her, as he rubbed her clit. Her lips parted and her lashes drifted, but she kept looking into his eyes too, her hips moving against his touch, her cheeks flushed. She moaned his name, and he shivered.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you," she moaned. "I love you..."

He sensed it, when she seemed to relax under him, when she ran her fingers through his hair. She was still tired, still exhausted, and he had succeeded in distracting her, but she wasn't feeling the same kind of pleasure from it now. He slid his finger fully inside her and left it there, gently curling against the spongy cushion of her g-spot, his thumb resting against her clit. She tightened her inner flesh against him in a long pulse.

"We were like this," he told her softly. "We made love, but we didn't go further than this. We didn't... join."

"We are joined," she whispered. "You're inside me."

He shook his head slowly. "It's more than this," he whispered. "Deeper than this. It's okay, Nan. It's okay. How do you feel?"

She shook her head. "Sleepy," she whispered. "It... it feels good... the way you're touching me..."

He nodded. "Just relax," he whispered. "Shh..."

He laid down with her, and she moaned quietly when he began to work his finger in and out of her again. Her inner flesh pulsed and he brushed his lips against hers, her lips parting. When he circled her clit with his thumb, that pulse was twice as strong. She kissed him, her tongue sliding against his.

He broke the kiss to nuzzle against her ear. "Relax," he whispered. "Just let yourself feel it, Nan..."

She moaned, her knee drawing up again. "Ned," she whined. " _Ned..._ "

He felt her come. He felt her spasm, felt her gasp and cling to him, her heart beating so hard. He kept rubbing his thumb against her clit until she was releasing hoarse breathless screams, her head tilted back, and she strained against him.

Then she stuttered out a sigh and relaxed to the bed, and he gently slid his hand away from her. He reached for the tissue box beside his bed and wiped his hand, then wiped between her thighs. She was still trembling a little when she rolled into his arms.

"Sleep," he whispered. "Rest, sweetheart."

"It feels like that to make love?"

"Yeah," he whispered. "It feels like that, Nan. Shh."

She nuzzled against him, her head pillowed against his shoulder. "I wish I remembered," she whispered, her voice slow with exhaustion. "I wish I'd remembered that instead."

"Me too," he murmured, and kissed her temple, closing his own eyes too.

\--

He fed Oscar in the morning, when Oscar kept insistently butting against the bedroom door. When the cat followed him back into the bedroom and curled up at the foot of the bed, Ned shrugged and stumbled back toward it, rejoining Nancy under the covers. She was still naked, limp as a rag doll, and she cuddled up against him when he wrapped his arm around her.

It felt _right_ , to be with her like this. Her bare skin was slightly tacky under his fingertips, and her breath was warm against his collarbone. She wasn't curled up in a ball anymore. He didn't think she had dreamed again.

They slept until they were both hungry, until late in the morning. When Ned woke again she was still in his arms, and she hadn't moved. She hadn't left.

She was okay. She had made it through the night.

He kissed the crown of her head, reaching up to stroke her hair, and she groaned quietly, then arched as she stretched. He felt the shiver that passed over her as she realized she was still naked and became self-conscious about it. Then he kissed her hair again, and she seemed to relax a little.

He made spinach mushroom feta omelets for them, with bacon and buttered toast. She drank two cups of coffee, and when he saw her shivering in her pajamas he went to his room and found his robe, giving it to her to warm her up.

The morning after they had made love for the first time, she had been gone. This time she smiled at him when their eyes met. It was a small smile, and she blushed a little too, but he hoped that she had been too tired to remember anything else. He hoped that nothing else like that ever came back to her, not after how devastated she was.

He had _promised_ himself he wouldn't be intimate with her again, not while she was like this, but he had. He was disappointed in himself, but he decided that he wasn't going to regret it. Not if he had helped her focus on anything other than her terrible recovered memories.

Once she had swallowed the last bite of her omelet, Nancy sat back with a sigh and rubbed her belly. "That was really good," she told him. "Thanks."

"Anytime." When he glanced up at her, her chin was down, almost against her chest. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "What are we doing today?" she asked quietly, and he could hear the expectation in her voice. It sounded like quiet, resigned defeat.

"What do you want to do?"

She took a deep breath. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't ever... I don't want to spend another day like we did yesterday. But if we need to... if I have to go through more of it, then I'll just dread it, if we don't just get it over with..."

Ned propped his chin on his hand. "I think you need to rest," he told her. "You need to relax and heal. We can hang out today, and if you remember anything else, so be it... but I don't want to push you too much. Like I told you yesterday, I think most of it is done."

She rubbed her hand over her face, then sniffled. "God, I hope so," she whispered. "I... I want to see where I came from. And then I want to start over. I want to close the door on this and move on." She took another shivering breath. "But it's like being stuck in cement," she whispered.

He considered. "It's Friday," he pointed out. "We could do that. Head to Chicago for the weekend. I can contact Bess and see if she might be able to meet up with us. See if my parents are using the cabin; we could stay there. I'm sorry. I can't let you go alone." Although, he realized, she didn't have the resources to make it there by herself, even if she wanted.

She glanced up at him, and he saw that she hadn't thought it would happen so quickly, or maybe so soon. "I..."

"Or we could wait until next weekend." He shrugged a little, keeping his gaze on her face.

She ran her fingers through her hair. "Do you think we have that long?"

"I don't know," he admitted. He wanted to think that Hank had been exaggerating, or overcautious, but he just didn't know. Maybe a trip to Chicago would show anyone watching that she wasn't focusing on her time with the program. Maybe any indication that she was reconnecting with her past would make them anxious enough to act.

Hank had to have been nervous, to have left the black beauties. They were still safely in the biometric case, and Ned hoped that he never needed to use them. Once she took the pill to fully transition out, the black beauties wouldn't matter anyway.

And she wouldn't be able to defend herself against anyone who came after her.

"We should go this weekend. If that's okay." She gave him a small, anxious smile. "The cabin at the lake."

Ned nodded before his eyes widened. "The lake?"

She nodded once, before her gaze became distant and a small frown formed between her brows. "I..."

He was afraid to interfere or say anything, but he _knew_ he hadn't mentioned Fox Lake to her, not recently. He reached for her hand and gently clasped it in his. She had said she didn't remember making love with him before... but she remembered the rain.

She looked down at their joined hands, then into his face. "It feels safe," she whispered. "I don't know why."

He nodded. "Okay," he murmured. "Okay. We'll go. Let me call Bess, and we can pack. I think you might need some more clothes."

Bess returned his voicemail with a text message about an hour later, and he counted at least a dozen exclamation points. She said she would love to see Nancy, tonight or Saturday night or both. When Ned showed Nancy the message, she smiled a little uncertainly, then looked up at him.

This life was so new to her. For a year and a half, her old life had just been a series of vague images. To meet one of her oldest friends in just a few hours... he could imagine that it might be overwhelming.

He slid his arm around her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. "I can tell her tomorrow night, so you can have some more time to adjust to it," he told her. "And I can be there with you, if you want. I know this is a lot."

"I'll think about it," she said.

His parents had said they weren't using the cabin, but they also expected to see him if he made a visit. He had already decided that he would introduce Nancy as an old friend, which wasn't untrue, but he was also very aware that his mother would see the circumstances—the two of them staying at the lake house alone—as a tacit admission of more. His mother made a point of asking about whether he was seeing anyone about once a month, and though she didn't harp on it, he knew that she and his father would be happy to see him settled.

He didn't want his mother to have the wrong idea about Nancy. _He_ didn't want to get the wrong idea about her, either.

Ned left enough food and water for the weekend out for Oscar, and prepped his litter box; Oscar could tell something was up, and sulked. Nancy stroked the top of his head and the tip of his tail flicked as he looked up into her face. "We'll be back soon," she told him softly.

After lunch they left town, stopping at a department store to pick up some extra clothes for her, and headed for Illinois. He merged onto the interstate and put the car on cruise, then glanced over at her.

Her arms were tight, crossed over her belly. Occasionally she glanced out the window, but she looked pensive.

Ned took a deep breath. "Nan... last night... I..."

He wanted to apologize, but he didn't know how to say it without sounding like he regretted it, or like she should.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know what to do."

He shook his head. "That's not it," he said. "It isn't. I just... I wanted to help you."

She took a breath. "Oh," she breathed.

"Shit. That's not... I hope I didn't upset you, is all. I know that what I did last night—it wasn't appropriate."

"You mean like Hank said. That you need to let me—to make me go."

Ned reached for her, and gently rested his hand on her knee. "I mean that saying that was unconventional as a therapeutic method is putting it lightly," he said. "I _don't_ want to let you go. But I... I promised myself that this wouldn't happen again. I didn't want to... to be with you that way unless you wanted it too. Not until you were finished with decompression."

She put her hand over his, and he glanced over at her for a second. "You said we weren't... that there was more," she murmured. "I... it felt good. Please don't say you're sorry. That you wish it hadn't happened."

"If it was all right. If it didn't hurt you or upset you, then no. And you—it's okay that you didn't know what to do. You did fine."

She laced her fingers between his, and he felt her relax a little. "All I could think about was you," she whispered. "And how... it was so..." When he glanced over at her, the color had risen in her cheeks. "I couldn't relax... until you stopped..."

"I know. I think you were just getting self-conscious... but it's all right."

She gently rubbed the ball of her thumb against the side of his hand. "Can we do it again tonight?" she said, her voice soft, her head still down. "I... it felt like I just slept, I didn't dream again..."

"What did you dream?"

She shook her head. "George," she whispered, and that was all she said.

"Yeah. We can... we can be together like that again tonight." He flipped his hand over and she laced her fingers between again, holding on. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said. "I... Ned, I can't just... I need to find a job. I need to do something. I can't just live with you and let you take care of me for the rest of my life. I know you'll have to go back to work, soon. If I could just... get some gas for my car..."

He swallowed his disappointment. It had been unrealistic to just imagine that things would continue the way they were, but a part of him had wanted that. He had wanted her to be at home, at _his_ home, safe. And if she found a job, if she moved out, if she found herself upset one night and no one was around to stop her when she closed herself into the bathroom...

"Why don't we make a deal," he suggested. "I'd be happy to give you some gas money, and for you to find something you want to do. But if you... please stay at my place, even if you aren't in my bed. I think you need someone else to be around you, and I know that's probably frustrating..."

"It's not." She smiled a little. "Maybe Vanessa was just an actress or someone hired to keep an eye on me, and maybe we didn't talk to each other that much, but I don't remember what it was like to live totally alone. And I guess maybe I never did." She sighed. "I feel like I'm taking advantage of you, but I don't want to be alone. I'm sorry."

"And I don't want you to be alone." He brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

Fox Lake was on the other side of Mapleton, and Ned had to stop briefly at his father's real estate office to pick up the key to the cabin; he promised that he would come by to see his parents before he went back to his place. Just as Ned had suspected, the weather was still cold enough to make the cabins unappealing to summer visitors, and many of them looked like they had been vacant for the winter. Nancy's first view of it was with the sun setting over the still-frozen water, and he saw tears in her eyes when she gazed at it, when she saw where they would be spending the weekend.

Bess had confirmed that she would be happy to see Nancy and possibly Ned for dinner on Saturday, and so they took their time going through the cabin, making the bed they would share, uncovering the furniture, and unloading their luggage.

For dinner they made steak and baked potatoes and salad. Ned showed Nancy how to make baked potatoes the way his mother had shown him, and they chopped up the salad ingredients and he took care of grilling the steaks. They sat down to eat their dinner and he watched her a little nervously; he had made dinner for her before, but this... this felt more like a dinner he was making for and with a girlfriend than for a friend or a client, for some reason. She took her first bite and glanced up at him with a smile.

"It's really good."

He relaxed a little, smiling too. "Thanks. The salad looks really good too."

"Yeah. Something I can handle." She chuckled.

After they finished dinner and loaded their dishes into the washer, Ned suggested that they settle in for a movie; he was tired, but not _that_ tired, and he wanted to take advantage of the little time they had left before he went back to work. His parents didn't pay for year-round satellite service at the cabin, since they were mostly there during the summer. Instead, they had amassed a pretty respectable DVD collection.

"We can watch anything you want."

She had her arms crossed as she looked at the rows of slender cases. "I don't think I've seen any of these," she admitted, and glanced back at him. "What should we watch?"

He came over to her, sliding his arm around her waist, and she relaxed against him. "Romantic comedy? Action movie? Classic?"

"No action movie," she requested. "I don't think I could handle it."

Ned decided on a romantic comedy that had come out fifteen years earlier and slotted it into the machine. The cabin was cool enough to warrant a fire in the fireplace, and he had set up the firewood while they were unpacking. He touched a match to the crumpled newspaper beneath as they waited for the movie to load. He had unpacked the afghans his mother usually kept on or near the couches, and they sat side by side, cuddling underneath one of them.

A part of him had been so eager, too eager, to accept her reappearance in his life and her presence now, to share his bed with her, to commit himself to the emotionally and physically draining treatment she needed. Another part of him had been wounded deeply—too deeply, if he were honest, for just the loss of someone he had known so brief a time. He had tried to keep from fantasizing about her, dreaming about her, wondering where she was during that time apart, before he had believed her lost.

But this had been one of his favorite mental images. He had talked to her about the cabin at Fox Lake; he had imagined her here so many times. Imagined _this_. Making dinner with her, sitting with her on the couch, going out to the lake and dipping their toes in the water—well, not that yet, but soon. And then she had been lost, and this had become almost a way to torture himself, a dream that would never be realized. A relationship that would never truly be real. They had only had a small stretch of days together, only spent a few hours learning what it was to love each other. And they had barely scratched the surface. Even now, they had barely scratched the surface.

Ned slid his arm around her shoulders and she nestled against him, and he thought that his heart would break. He had lost her. He had lost _this_. And he had been doing everything he could to keep himself steady and even and calm, to be the balance and the peace she needed.

It had been no burden, to promise this, to let Hank off the hook for it. But he found himself trembling a little. Soon she would transition out, and it wouldn't be over, but they could start to build a life together, if that was what she wanted.

He had been alone for so long. And maybe it was all an illusion, just a wish his heart had made. He didn't want to believe that, but he knew all too well how easy it was to imagine a depth of relationship when it wasn't shared. Hank had done everything he could to warn Ned against it.

But she was drawing him deeper, and if she came back to herself and thought that he had taken advantage of her, that he had used her vulnerability and need against her, that the only person she could trust had taken something so precious from her...

"Hey," she murmured, and he realized that she was looking up at him. "Are you all right?"

He had invented a life for them, one that had been safe and harmless before she had been out of his reach. Now she was here. He had to let her make the choices. He couldn't take it out of her hands this way. He couldn't.

And he loved her, with every beat of his heart.

He had promised himself he wouldn't let this happen again. It had been different when he had let himself believe that what was happening was impermanent, but now...

He looked into her eyes and tried to force himself to smile. But he had taken some of her innocence.

God, oh God, on top of everything else she didn't deserve this.

She searched his dark eyes, then reached up and cupped his cheek, stroking her thumb against his skin, ignoring the movie that had begun to play unheeded. "What's wrong?" she murmured, searching his eyes still, her own beginning to gleam with tears.

He shook his head. "I guess I'm still stuck in the past," he murmured. "There's no way to know the future. I wish I did."

She sniffled. "You're acting different," she whispered. "Your face doesn't match what you're saying. Are you mad at me?"

"No, Nan. God, no. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself. And I think a part of me is still—kind of in shock, that you're here. That you're real and here with me again. I used to picture you here with me..."

She gave him a very small smile. "And until a week ago, you were a dream," she murmured. "You think it's strange, but I didn't even know you were _real_. I thought I was awake, but everything that I've gone through feels like a nightmare now, and _this_ feels real. It feels right, to be with you. Like I'm—like I'm feeling what it is to be happy for the first—" She sniffled, and blinked a pair of tears down her cheeks. "For the first time in my whole damn life. I've never felt like this before. And I'm so fucking afraid of disappointing you."

He reached for her and drew her onto his lap, into his arms, holding her tight. "No," he whispered. "No. Shh. I love you. I'm not disappointed in you. I know this has been so hard, but you've been strong. I know you've felt like giving up, but you didn't. You're so incredibly brave, Nan. Shh."

She sighed, and her voice shivered with the edge of a sob. "If I'd been alone last night," she whispered, and then she buried her face against his neck, clinging to him. "I feel like I'll spend the rest of my life making up for who I was."

He moved back so he could look into her face. "Don't think of it that way," he told her, and stroked his thumbs over her wet cheeks, wiping away her tears. "You can't number your sins and purge them away, not like that. I know from what you told me that you wanted to help people. Maybe that's how this started. Maybe that's how they recruited you. Telling you that you would help people. And you did. I know it's not that simple, but it wasn't all death and pain. People's lives were saved, thanks to you."

She sniffled again. "But you don't know," she murmured. "You can't name a single person, can you?"

He shook his head. "From what I know about the program, I know that what I'm saying is true," he told her. "But my clearance isn't high enough to know all of what you did. And it's in the past, now. You won't go back there. Not ever."

She searched his eyes. "Those black pills," she said. "They would make me go back there. Wouldn't they. Why did he leave them with you unless that was what he wanted?"

Ned shook his head. "We'll dispose of them," he told her. "We'll put them where they can't hurt anyone. And you'll transition out, and it will be done."

"And we'll be together."

He nodded. "If that's what you want," he told her.

She nodded slowly, but he could still see the uncertainty in her eyes. Everything had changed for her, in so short a time. And if they came for her, the black beauties might be all that stood between her and death.

He hoped, he _prayed_ , that whatever they had wanted, they had succeeded in taking away from her permanently. That she wouldn't be left looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life, waiting for a muzzle flash in the darkness.

He offered to start the movie over, but she shook her head, and slowly they settled so that he was stretched out on his side on the couch, and she was in front of him, his arm looped over her. He considered mentioning having a meal with his parents, but the timing didn't feel right. Not like this.

It still felt so damnably intimate, to take her home to meet his parents. It had been a long time since he had done that with anyone.

He could feel that she was drifting off when she suddenly jerked, and he heard her panting. "Breathe," he murmured, and she whimpered. "Shh, breathe. Focus on my voice. It's all right. Just breathe, Nan."

"Ned," she whispered, and then she turned over so she was facing him, practically burrowing against him. He wrapped his arms securely around her, pulling her up to move onto his back, so that she was on top of him. He stroked her hair and her back, and felt her trembling.

"Shh," he murmured. "Shh. Do you want to talk about it?"

She didn't reply to that, other than to tip her face down. So, no.

Slowly, so very slowly, the trembling slowed. He adjusted the afghan over her and kept stroking her hair and her back, until she seemed calmer. Then he wrapped one arm around her again, and used the other to keep rubbing her back.

"Tell me it'll get better," she whispered. "Even if it's a lie."

"It will get better," he told her, and rubbed between her shoulder blades. "It will. All the poison is coming out. And once it's out, you can start to heal. It won't be like this forever."

She sniffled. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry for taking you away from your life and... needing so much."

"Hey," he murmured. "Look at me."

She moved back, shifting her weight so she could lift her head, and for a moment their hips were pressed tight together. His response to her proximity was immediate, but he used every bit of his will to ignore it. He cupped her cheeks and gazed into her eyes, the dancing firelight reflected there.

"All you need to focus on right now is healing," he told her softly. "That's it. Please don't worry about it. It's going to be all right, Nan. It's okay."

She searched his eyes, and he saw the hesitation, the expression that came over her face when she was trying to keep herself from saying something. "What is it?" he murmured, and stroked her cheek with his thumb.

"I want to be with you," she whispered. "And all I do is take from you..."

He shook his head. "What I've taken from you... oh, Nan..."

Her eyes widened slightly. "No, you haven't..."

"I hate that you're so upset, and feeling responsible for it. And last night..."

She shook her head. "And you gave to me," she whispered. "You gave me love. You give me love. You gave me a past when I thought I had nothing. You comfort me and feed me and give me a place to rest... and I have _nothing._ " She shook her head again. "A beat-up car and a suitcase. _Nothing._ And I wake up in your arms and the only thing that hurts me when I look into your eyes is the thought that this might not be forever."

"And when I see the pain you're in," he whispered, "and I know that I've helped cause it, and knowing I can't help you when I'd give everything to make you feel better..."

She took a deep breath and moved over him, and he couldn't stop her. He didn't want to. "You give me all of you," she whispered. "How could I possibly need more from you, when you've given me so much..."

He shook his head. "You need more than just me," he told her softly. "That's what he meant. I'm not enough, baby. I can't be enough for you."

Her eyes were shining. "But you are the only person in the world I trust," she whispered. "Please be with me. Please help it stop, tonight..."

\--

She was trembling, but the trembling was just inside now. It felt like a vibration under her skin, and if she closed her eyes it would just oscillate wide, cutting through her, unseating her heart.

Every time she closed her eyes it felt like another wound, down to the bone.

And then he threaded his fingers through her hair and he didn't say no when she gently brushed her lips against his, in an instant aware that _she_ was kissing _him,_ that she was in control and he wasn't turning away from her. Her next heartbeat sent a throb of warm awareness through her torso, to the join of her thighs, to where they were pressed against each other.

He had only pleased her, last night. He had kissed her and stroked her and made love to her, but she hadn't made love to him. She had been hurt and she had hated herself, hated that she still lived, but he had made love to her. And she had felt loved.

His lips parted and she dipped her tongue into his mouth, and she knew the room was cool, but when his hand drifted down her back, she felt so warm. She tilted her head and she could have laughed, their kiss felt so strange, and then it was like their rhythm matched and she blushed. Last night he had wanted her to take her clothes off, to be vulnerable to him, but he hadn't been vulnerable to her. Maybe because she hadn't even tried... but she didn't know what it was, to make love to him.

Nothing around her, for the longest time, had been familiar. She didn't—she _hadn't_ —had friends she could call just to talk about her day, people who cared about her. She had never seen a man look at her with love in his eyes, or anyone else for that matter. She had grown accustomed to her loneliness. She had made a home in it, and it was easier to believe that she deserved it somehow than to do anything else. Other people seemed to befriend easily, effortlessly. She didn't trust anyone.

She remembered some of it now, her father, the friends she had made in her childhood, but they weren't a part of her life. Not anymore.

The only person she trusted was pinned beneath her on the couch, and she could feel that pressure again, between his legs. She thought that maybe it was how he felt when he was attracted to her. Maybe.

He sighed her name, almost like a moan, and his dark eyes were glowing as he looked up at her. "Come here," he murmured.

He reached for the remote and turned off the movie and the television set, leaving them alone with the crackling of the fire and the steady throb of her heartbeat. She felt nervous as he reached for her hand, gathering a quilt with the other. A braided rug had been placed in front of the fireplace, and he spread the quilt over it, and her eyes widened as she realized what he wanted.

She had seen something like this, once, flipping through channels on the television, before she had grown self-conscious and embarrassed and changed it. A woman, eager and docile, long pretty hair tumbling down her back, and a shirtless muscular man laying her down, gazing into her eyes, firelight behind them.

Last night they had been in bed together. But he wanted to be with her here.

She took a deep breath and reached for his hand, and while they were still standing and facing each other, she tipped her face up for a kiss. He responded, his kiss deep and so deliberate, so—she flushed again even more deeply, a shiver traveling down her spine.  The firelight danced in his dark eyes. They were alone, truly alone.

She knew. She had checked while he had been gathering firewood. She hadn't found any telltale equipment or tiny wire antennas.

She hadn't even known what she was looking for, only that she would know it when she found it—and that the handful of devices she had found back at his home and disabled might not be the only ones. But he had willingly taken her away from there. If they were safe anywhere, they were safe here.

And she saw such love in his eyes, and she was beginning to understand what had happened before. They weren't guaranteed tomorrow. She had always known that.

He kissed her again, and his hand moved between them to touch her fly; she touched his, too, fumbling a little before she began to unbutton and unzip his jeans. He chuckled against their kiss, and when they parted a little she reached for the hem of his sweater too, and he pulled it over his head. His undershirt was next.

Everything had been so much more immediate the night before, but maybe he had just been reacting instinctually to how upset she was; maybe it hadn't been deliberate at all, not like this. She still saw that hesitance in him, like he was afraid of hurting her. Like he was afraid that this would hurt _him_.

He had loved her so much, and then he had lost her. She had lost everything, and now, to have a piece of it back, like this...

He was unfastening her jeans when she cupped his cheek, gazing up into his eyes. She felt so vulnerable, being so close to him, being like this, but she had vulnerable to him from the moment they had met. She had been lain bare to him, and he held everything; he had given her so much. His proximity, the warmth of his bare skin, the glow in his eyes... it was more than intoxicating.

Before, they had only had a day together. But she didn't want this to end. As selfish as she knew it was, she hated the idea of ever letting him go.

He stepped in close to her, sliding his hands beneath her jeans to cup her hips through her panties, and turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. She took a shivering breath as he kissed the pulse point of her wrist, pushing her jeans down a little more.

"Do you want this," he whispered against her skin. "Do you want more..."

"Yes," she whispered, and looked into his eyes again.

He caught the hem of her sweater in his hands and pulled it up and off her; he kissed her earlobe, her neck, her shoulder, and her knees felt weak. He moved onto his knees, kissing his way down, between her breasts, down her stomach. She kept her hand on his shoulder, and when he nuzzled against the front of her panties, she swayed, moaning quietly. Warmth rose in her cheeks.

"Lie down," he murmured, and she dropped to her knees too, letting him work her jeans down and off before she moved onto her back on the quilt. She could feel the haloed warmth of the fire against her skin, and when she looked up at him, his arms and chest were alternately shadowed and golden in the light. His presence, the scent of his skin—soap and the musk of his sweat and something woodsy that she had come to associate with him—and the warmth in his eyes, oh, she couldn't look away from him, she couldn't think of anything else. And she was glad.

"Can I look at you?" she whispered, touching his shoulder, flushing more warmly in self-consciousness. "I want to see you..."

She was still wearing her underwear when she helped him work his jeans off, then slid his underwear down so he was naked. She propped herself up beside him and studied him, swirling her fingertips over his bare skin. He kept one hand at her waist, his gaze on her face, as she stroked his hip and his stomach.

Then he reached up, trailing his fingertips up her spine, and touched the closure of her bra. She met his gaze as he thumbed it open, and glanced down before she shrugged her shoulders and let it slide down her arms.

"You look beautiful," he whispered. "You look so beautiful, Nan."

"I love you," she whispered. "I wish I knew how... what to do, to make you feel good..."

Her lashes fluttered down when he rubbed his palm gently against her hip, then hooked his thumb in the elastic of her panties and gently slid them down. "I love you," he murmured. "Come to me, sweetheart..."

She took her panties off at his urging, then laid down with him, shivering a little. He moved so her front was pressed against him, and her back was warmed by the fire; she could see it dancing in his eyes, when he gazed into her face. Her head was pillowed by his arm, and she stroked her palm against his hip, and that trembling was deeper than just her bones.

It wasn't fear. She just didn't know what he wanted, or what she wanted, other than exhaustion. She didn't want to wake in the night shivering again, lost in a newfound memory, hollowed out by loathing and sorrow.

And she wanted tenderness. She wanted, with him, what she had never had. She wanted to find a way past it that didn't involve the shame and emptiness she felt after hurting herself.

She had spent nights in his arms, but not naked, not like this. She had been this close to him before, but they had never been this exposed to each other. When he kissed her, she shivered; when he trailed his fingertips lightly against the curve of her hip, every stroke of his skin against hers made her feel such intense, almost frightening pleasure that she could think of nothing else, and she was glad.

In some strange way, she felt like she was meant for this. It felt natural and right to be with him, and she couldn't imagine being this way with anyone else. She slid her arm around him, stroking his back as he deepened their kiss.

When he moved her onto her back, she moved willingly, rubbing her palm against his shoulder blades as he kissed her, her knees parted and his hips between. He kissed her until she was a little breathless and flushed warm; she wrapped both arms around him, and his thick, dark hair felt silky between her fingers as she ran them through it. He radiated warmth, and he was broad-shouldered and so _male._ She could feel the coarse hair on his arms and legs, the rough stubble on his cheeks, and it was so strange and so familiar at the same time, to be so close to him when she had never felt this with anyone else.

He trailed slow, sweet kisses down her body, taking so much time with her breasts, suckling against each nipple as he fondled the other with his fingers, and his lower body wasn't in contact with hers, not yet. She heard a low wordless pleading, rough and almost guttural, and realized she was making it. Oh God, how she wanted him, and it felt so good...

This was how men and women were with each other. This was what it meant, to feel love.

But she didn't really believe that. Whatever this was, it wasn't ordinary; nothing in her life had been ordinary. Everything had changed when their lives had intersected.

He moved down, kissing his way down her belly, nuzzling against her inner thighs, and she let him. She didn't tense up or push him away, even though her heart was beating so very hard. Then he gently kissed her, between her legs, and she flinched at how sensitive she felt.

"Shh," he murmured, and even the weight of his breath made her shiver. He stroked her hips, and she turned her head to look into the fire, her fingers in his hair, and he was nuzzling against her...

And then he teased her low between her legs, where he had touched her the night before, and she tipped her head back, arching, her lips parting. He groaned and she blushed again, realizing that inside her, where he was touching her, was so slippery and sensitive, and—

He licked her.

She took a shuddering breath, arching a little more. "Ned," she panted. "Oh..."

The night before, when he had touched her inside—it had felt good, and then for a while she hadn't felt that euphoria, but then it had come back again. Tonight, the incredible joy didn't leave her. Maybe because he hadn't been kissing her like this...

And oh _God_ , she went out of her mind with how good it felt. Last night he had just been rubbing his thumb against that sensitive place, but now he suckled and teased and kissed and stroked it, and she sobbed, her eyes rolling back, her fingers still buried in his hair. He had said it wasn't really joining, that they would be closer, but when her inner flesh tightened around his finger, he groaned against the join of her thighs and she shivered in delight. She licked her lips, she parted her legs until they were almost fully open, and he didn't stop.

Then she gasped, whimpering his name as she tensed. He gently bit her and she screamed, and she couldn't stop shuddering, couldn't stop. She whipped her head back and forth, her shoulders tensing, her spine arched. Every rough swipe of his tongue, every glance of his teeth—she didn't know why but it felt right to rock her hips, to move in small circles. She felt tears rise in her eyes as his fingertips glanced against her inner thigh.

Slowly, slowly, he relaxed her once the tension had peaked, leaving her gasping for breath and trembling. He nuzzled and stroked her thighs and she ran her fingers through his hair, her other hand open and loose at her side. Her lips were still parted, her throat dry, and though her body was slowly coming back to normal, her mind still was spinning.

"Is that what you wanted?"

His voice was low, dark and rich, and she shivered. "Yes," she whispered. "But I didn't know..."

"Hmm?" He looked into her eyes when she trailed off, and she was still resting her hand on his head, her fingers still in his hair. For a moment, she hadn't been able to feel anything other than the pleasure of his fingers and lips and tongue against and inside her.

"I didn't know it could be like this," she whispered.

He dropped a kiss against her belly button, then moved beside her again, facing her. "We don't need an excuse for this," he murmured. "It doesn't need to be because you're hurting and upset. It can be because you're happy or because you want this."

"But it's not all," she murmured, and his eyes widened slightly. "You're afraid."

He didn't reply to her for a long time. "I don't know how it is to not be losing you," he whispered. "And you aren't awake yet, Nan. You aren't yourself yet."

She closed her eyes and tried to stifle the panic she was feeling. To hold onto this for as long as she could. If she wasn't awake yet, then she never wanted to be.

"But this is real," she whispered. "This and you are all that's real. Don't tell me I'm dreaming. Don't tell me this will end. I came to you. I found you because I..." Her voice started trembling. "I needed to find the lake and I knew that if I did, the pain would end, somehow..."

He pulled her into his arms and she pressed her face against his chest, clinging to him in return, exhausted and comforted by him. "You've been a ghost for so long," he whispered. "Please stay with me, Nan. Please."

"Always," she whispered. "Always."


	11. Chapter 11

Ned woke in the morning to the feel of Nancy's lips against his chest. He groaned quietly and felt her lips turn up against his skin; he draped his arm over her and embraced her, and she nuzzled against him.

They were in bed. He had used the last of his energy to carry her there the night before. The winter sunlight was pale on her hair, and a trace of woodsmoke lingered in the quilt he had brought with them and tossed over the bed, in case she felt cold. But their naked bodies were warm, and she slid a leg between his and cuddled against him.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Okay?"

"Yeah," she whispered, and nestled against him.

He closed his eyes and tried to hold onto this. It was so close to the way he had imagined it. Being with her like this, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin... the pure sweet intimacy of it. He loved her. He loved her so, so much.

To let her go now, to lose her now... he didn't know what he would do.

She groaned quietly. "Have to get up," she whispered.

"I'll come with you."

They came back to bed as soon as they could, and she moved back into his arms without self-consciousness or hesitation. He kissed her forehead, rubbing her back.

"You've met Bess before?"

Ned's hand stilled against her skin. "Once. I was in town to see my parents."

She took a deep breath. "If they... If this is a trap... Did anything seem off about her?"

Ned paused for a moment. "I wouldn't have known," he admitted. "I only met her that one time and she was so upset. Do you want me to come with you tonight? Just in case?"

"Yeah." She sounded—distracted. He could feel the change in her. A part of him welcomed it; a part of him was afraid of it. "I need you to help me. I don't want to get caught."

"I'll do whatever I can, to help you."

She moved so she could look into his eyes. "I don't know what I'd do without you," she whispered. "I love you."

He smiled as he stroked her cheek. In that moment all his doubts and fears were silenced, and all he felt was the warmth of her smile. "I love you too, Nan."

For breakfast he made pancakes, and she sat down at the kitchen table with a pad of paper and a pen. When he brought over her plate, a pat of butter melting on top of a stack of hot, fluffy pancakes, he glanced at what she had written.

"Hmm."

She glanced up, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Thanks," she told him, and smiled. Her expression was uncertain. "Do you think I'm making too much of this?"

He shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "When we first met, I would have said yes. Now, though..."

"Now you're not so sure."

He turned back to the skillet, but not without searching her eyes for a long moment. "Everything," he told her, glancing back over his shoulder as he stirred the pancake batter. "The black beauties, Hank's note..."

"The bugs at your house."

" _What?_ "

She glanced down, tucking her hair behind her ear again. She didn't look back up.

"Nan... Look, we're going to talk about this, okay? Just give me a minute."

He impatiently watched the pancakes, flipping them when they were the palest golden brown, but he was so distracted that it would have been easy to burn them. He brought his plate of pancakes and some bacon to the table, sitting down near her. She was bent over her list, half her stack of pancakes already eaten. He touched her hand, and she looked up at him, warily.

"Bugs at my house?"

A flush rose in her cheeks, and she shifted in her seat. "I found five," she murmured. "At your house."

"Did more of your memory come back? You had to have found them before we left..."

Ned had just forked up a bite of pancake when his phone chirped. He and Nancy looked at each other. She gave him a little shrug. "Go ahead," she murmured.

Thanks to their conversation, Ned had been half-convinced that the notification was for a message from Hank, or someone from her past life. It was both a massive letdown and a relief to find that it was from Andre, one of his friends back home.

_Dude, my sis-in-law is in town. Save me! Want to go out tonight?_

Ned chuckled as he sat back down with his phone. _If you want, you can say so - I'm out of town but you can hang out at my place, watch the game, pet Oscar. We can—_

He had been about to type "hang out next weekend," but he wasn't sure. He didn't know if Nancy would be okay by then. He couldn't leave her alone until she was stable, and while he was pretty sure she was well on her way to transitioning back, that didn't mean she would be stable in a week.

_hang out for real soon_ , he finished the message. Andre had come by to feed Oscar a few times while Ned had been out of town; he had a key to Ned's place, to use in case of emergencies.

"Everything okay?" Nancy asked, gazing at his face. "Hank?"

So she had the same fears he did. Ned shook his head. "Just a friend," he said. "Nothing bad. When did you find the bugs?"

She shook her head. "Not immediately," she murmured. "It was... after the pill. I don't even know why I started looking." She sighed. "I was... I don't know who to trust. And you—you were so open with me that I was sure you didn't know about them. That it wasn't a trap. I didn't find anything here, if you were wondering."

Ned released his breath in an incredulous sigh. "I wonder how long they'd been there," he murmured. "Oh, shit."

She glanced over at him. "If they're still monitoring, they'll know I disabled them," she said. "But when we get back, it might be better if I put them back in place. Show them that they have nothing to worry about. Maybe that will keep us safe."

"You left one in place when we were together, before. Plausible deniability."

She forked up another bite of her pancakes. "Part of me doesn't care," she said, her voice very quiet. "I want this done. If they're keeping track, this might provoke a meeting."

Ned swallowed his bite of pancake. "Is this something you remember from your training, or is it just something that feels instinctual?"

"Instinct," she replied, after a beat. "Maybe that sounds silly to you."

He shook his head. "You've been through a lot," he told her. "I'd trust your instinct."

She put her fork down. "My instincts either brought me to you or almost made me kill myself," she said. "I don't know. I still don't feel all that confident in anything right now."

Ned's phone chirped. _Thanks, man. Might take you up on that._

He reached for her hand, after he had read the message. "One step at a time," he said. "No bugs here. We'll be meeting with Bess. Then we'll talk about finding you a job. Finding something you want to do."

She rested her chin on her hand. "How did you know what you wanted to be?"

He shrugged. "I just really liked my psychology classes," he told her. "I really like helping people. It seemed like a good fit. And you like structure, and order. Being able to trust the person in charge."

She gave him a small smile. "Only when that person is you."

He took another bite of his pancakes. "So what did you have written down?"

She sighed. "I have to assume that those tapes you and I made, have been compromised," she told him. "That whoever planted the bugs found them and made copies, that if the person I meet tonight is a plant she'll know all that. I need things we didn't talk about. And the tapes helped. At least, I think they did. It's so hard. I remember things and then I'm not sure if they ever happened."

"Yeah." He squeezed her hand gently. "So if the person we meet tonight sends up any red flags for either of us..."

"We don't show that we're alarmed, unless we're in a situation that could be a trap. If she hands over some information, we accept it and evaluate it. I just don't want to be caught off-guard."

"Me either."

Once they had finished breakfast, Ned took the plates to the sink, as she bent over her list again. He felt cold.

_You've been compromised._

_How long? How long were the bugs there? How much do they know?_

_When we go back, will it just be a matter of time until they put more in place?_

The invasion of privacy was staggering; he only wished that he was at all surprised by it. He had suspected it, though. Some part of him had. Ever since he had left the program behind, a part of him had been waiting for this.

He was being punished for helping her. Worse, they were using Ned's relationship with her as a way to entrap her. He had tried to be careful, but they had seen through his excuses and explanations. He had wanted her to come to him; they had been sure of it. Once he had thought she was dead, he'd had no reason to be so careful anymore.

He only wished—and he knew how foolish the wish was—that they would confront him out in the open, without this subterfuge. If they wanted her back in—but he didn't want them to come for her. Together, the two of them weren't enough. He would just lose her again.

The thought of that was enough to make him so desperate that he almost believed he _could_ be enough. He would lay down his life to save her, but he had a feeling the separation of death would only be brief. Without him, especially now, she would have nothing to focus on, nothing to give her any hope.

Maybe Bess would. If Bess hadn't been replaced by a plant, if the person they met tonight was her childhood friend and Nancy could get past her wariness long enough to start rebuilding a relationship, that would only help. He firmly believed that she needed more than just him.

The lake. She had wanted to find the lake.

She was coming out of decompression. He could feel it slipping through his fingers, and he hated how desperate he felt as a result. Maybe they would still have some kind of relationship, but it would never be like this again. They would never have this weekend, this intimacy, again.

He turned around and saw her still sitting there. She glanced at the sightlines to each of the entrances before she glanced up at him, and his throat ached for a second. It was coming back. Her training had separated them before, in a way he had thought permanent. He could give her the pill that transitioned her out permanently. He would. And all her choices would be her own again.

It was the best gift he could give her.

"What's wrong," she murmured.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

She waited a beat, then rose and came over to him. His heart skipped a beat as she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he took her in his arms, his lips brushing her ear as he nuzzled against her. 

"A part of me wishes we could just live here like this forever," she whispered. "We'd have to go get Oscar, though."

He chuckled. "I'm sure he'd appreciate it," he murmured. "I just... I want to make sure that I do everything I can for you."

"And that's why I'm sure you will." She kissed his cheek, then moved to look into his eyes. "If you were sure that you had nothing to worry about, then _I'd_ be worried. Between us, I think we'll be all right."

He nodded. "I'd do anything for you," he murmured.

She smiled, then brushed her lips against his. "I want to do anything for you too," she murmured. "I want to keep you safe."

"I think that's my line," he commented, and searched her eyes. "If it were up to me, you'd never leave my sight, not for the rest of our lives. As terribly unhealthy as that would be."

"I'm tempted to ask you to prove it," she murmured, and kissed him one more time before releasing him.

His arms felt empty when she wasn't in them. It was being alone with her again in a place like this, somewhere that was more isolated and tranquil, that made him think of before. In the afternoon they went for a walk on the shore, bundled up against the cold. There was no point in hiding; the cabin wasn't secret, and they weren't really trying to disguise themselves. Everything they were doing was innocent. She was coming back home to see people she had known before, and Ned was going to see his family, and that was it.

If the people in the program had known that Nancy would be likely to find Ned again, then there was no way they hadn't anticipated this. It made the prospect of dinner with Bess all the more potentially disastrous. He had only met her once, and so briefly, and if they had given her a roommate who had lied to her for over a year...

They were on the couch, warming up after their walk, when Ned's phone chirped with a message. _I didn't know Oscar was an outdoor cat?_

Ned was pretty sure his heart stopped. He replied to Andre's message with a single question mark.

_When I got here he ran inside. Anyway, his food and water are fine. Thx for letting me hang out here._

Nancy's fingers touched his hand, and he turned his phone toward her so she could read the exchange. Then she glanced up at him, eyes wide.

"Might've been looking for clues to where we went. Might've been replacing the bugs." She released a sigh and ran her fingers through her hair. "Or he just found a way out that he had never found before."

"Yeah. Really thinking it's the former."

She glanced up at him again. "Next we'll hear that the meeting place has changed for tonight," she murmured. "No recon. And then... we'll see. If we need to run, where will we go? Where will we meet up?"

Ned could feel that his hands were starting to tremble a little. He just gazed at her, and he didn't want to think that way. Oh, oh God, it had been the worst feeling in the world, thinking she was dead, that he would never see her again. Even now, he had come so close to losing her, because there had been no planning for this, for her. Their lives had crashed into each other. He hadn't been the same after, and he didn't think she had, either. Maybe taking the pill and reenlisting had been her choice, maybe she had reset or something close to it that night, but he didn't think that she had been unchanged by what happened between them.

"The lake?" he asked, forcing himself to speak the words, forcing himself to look into her frightened eyes. "Back near my work, where you were? Could you even get back there?"

He saw something flicker in her expression—something almost gentle, almost patronizing. "Yeah," she murmured. "I could. Not—well."

Not via legitimate means.

He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. "And that's not going to happen," he said.

She shook her head. "No," she agreed. "It won't. I can't leave you alone, if I can help it."

"Oh?"

Her smile was small and humorless. "You wouldn't make it three hours," she murmured, and then she looked down.

The black beauties Hank had left for her. He wondered what would happen, who she would become, under their influence. She had described that life as the only one she had ever known, and she had been both drawn to and repulsed by it. Now, that repulsion seemed to have swallowed all that she had found attractive in it.

But it was coming back. Along with the return of her memories, the instincts and mannerisms were coming back. It was all she had known, and maybe it had almost destroyed her, but that life had also given her strength and purpose and some terrible kind of stability. She had been lost without it.

Oh, they had been so, so careful, so insidious. She had been so young, too young.

And then her thumb stroked against the side of his hand and he focused on her again, and they had to start getting ready to go soon, but she moved into his arms and held him, clinging to him. He wished he could draw her into his body, into the safe cage of his ribs, and protect her forever. His lips brushed her neck and she held him tight, and he closed his eyes.

She would sleep in his arms tonight, safe and warm and peaceful.

He only hoped that if he wished it hard enough, he could make it true.

\--

It was beginning to feel like waking.

The life that had been hers, that had been all she knew for the past eighteen months, was starting to pass away, to feel like it had happened to someone else—and in a way, she supposed, it had. She was beginning to patch together what remained, what she had recovered and what Ned had told her and passed along to her, but it was up to her whether she wanted to keep it. The person she had been was terrifying. She didn't want to be that person again; she didn't think she could have, even if she had wanted to.

Despite her trepidation and fear that their meeting tonight was a trap—and she had waited for it, had been sure that Bess would change their meeting time or place, but she had done neither—she still felt a perpetual nervous trembling that had nothing to do with planning for the worst possible eventuality. She was possibly about to meet a woman who had been a dear friend to her half a lifetime ago, who had known George, who was eager to meet her again. Bess had known her _before._ And now... now, Nancy had no idea if she was anything like the person Bess remembered. She was afraid of disappointing her old friend, if that was actually who they met tonight. She was, a little, afraid of being disappointed by her old friend.

Nancy paired a warm, comfortable turquoise sweater with her jeans, and combed her hair. She would have put on a more sophisticated outfit, but she didn't have one; she hadn't wanted to tax Ned's generosity when he took her shopping, and she had just been focused on the basics. She didn't have any jewelry or makeup, just a tube of lip balm.

And then Ned came into the room, and she felt his presence with every bit of her. He slid his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. "You look great, Nan," he murmured, and at the glow that warmed her cheeks, the smile that curved her lips, she could believe him. "And it's going to be fine. You'll see."

She could hear the faint note of uncertainty in his voice, but she nodded anyway. He wanted to believe that, and she wanted to believe him.

It was impossible; it was weakness, a liability, how strongly she felt about him. But that didn't stop her. In fact, somehow, it made it all the more seductive. She felt insecure about so much else in her life that she couldn't give him up. She measured everything else against how she felt about him.

A part of her, a part she had only recently come to recognize, craved independence and freedom. She had learned to do without the support of other people, as much as she possibly could. Sharing so much with Ned... well, she didn't think of him or their relationship in the same terms as anything else in her life.

Another part of her was drawn to him in a way she had been drawn to no one else, and she wanted to be with him. The night before... if every night could be like that one, if every morning could be like this one, if they were unobserved and free together, building a life—

But such thoughts were foolish. She still wasn't quite awake, and in the lingering spell of a dream, anything seemed possible. Her heart's greatest desires seemed possible, in a way she knew they weren't when she was fully awake.

She had wanted a place to fit in for so long that she had tried to convince herself it was impossible. Even now, being with him the way they were, it felt temporary. Something had separated them before. Something would come between them now. She couldn't invest herself in this, no matter how she felt about him.

And then, when they were in the car, he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, glancing over at her with those sweet dark eyes, and being logical and reasonable didn't matter anymore. If all she had with him was this moment, this small span of hours, she would take it, and she would be grateful that she had ever been given the chance to experience it, even when the crash made her feel like dying.

She had survived dying before. She could probably do it again.

Her anxiety spiked when Ned parked the car in front of a cute ranch-style house in a subdivision on the outskirts of River Heights. The yard was modest, and Nancy spotted a swingset in the backyard, the swings covered by a layer of iced snow. So her childhood friend had settled down and found someone. Nancy felt both glad and envious.

Ned stayed by her side as they approached the house, and Nancy kept an eye out for anything that seemed out of place or suspicious. Before they had even climbed the front steps, the front door was opening behind the outer glass door, and a woman was smiling at them. She had straw-blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, and she was about a head shorter than Nancy. Her figure was curvy, and she was dressed in a cowl-necked sweater dress, stockings, and pumps. She looked beautiful and fashionable, and Nancy's heart quailed again. She felt shy and anxious and somehow _small_ , and she wanted to be anywhere on earth other than this place, right now, facing this.

"Oh my God, _Nancy!_ " The blonde woman stepped out onto the porch and immediately wrapped her arms around Nancy in a big, solid hug, and Nancy could only make quiet incoherent noises that were somewhere between comforting and anxious. "I _knew_ you couldn't be dead. I knew it. We always swore you had nine lives." The woman tilted back to look up into Nancy's eyes. "Come on in! It's freezing out here. Hi, Ned."

Ned shrugged when Nancy glanced back at him, and she didn't see any wariness in his eyes. Apparently the woman he had met was the one he was seeing now, and he hadn't noticed anything different about her.

The large main room was warm and tastefully decorated, although a few primary-colored toys tumbled out of the toy chest in the corner ruined the effect a little. They didn't really go with the stark black and white tree photograph dominating one wall, or the abstract geometric carpeting.

Nancy had noticed the man sitting on the couch as soon as she had walked in; he stood, a polite smile on his face, and walked over to them. His black hair was neatly trimmed, and he had gorgeous cheekbones and a muscular frame. Nancy thought that Ned was incredibly handsome, but this guy wasn't bad either. That didn't mean she wasn't immediately wary, though.

"Nancy, Ned, this is my husband Steven." Steven offered Nancy his hand first, and she shook it, searching his face for any warning signs while doing everything she could to act natural. He looked polite but not completely comfortable, and that made sense. Then Ned shook Steven's hand, too.

"Nancy, it's nice to meet you. Bess has been so excited about tonight that she hasn't stopped pacing in the last hour."

Bess shot a glare at him, but there was affection in it. "I've been cool as a cucumber," she lied loftily, then giggled. "It's just... well, I hope you guys are hungry. I might have gone a little overboard. And I thought we'd have a grown-ups night... George is with my parents tonight."

Nancy glanced up at Bess's face. Ever since she had seen the blonde woman, she had known, without a doubt, that this was the woman she had known when they were children. She was older now, but of course she was. All her failsafes and contingency plans faded to nothing. Nancy's lips parted, the question on her lips.

"Our little boy," Bess explained, before Nancy even had a chance to voice it. "I... well, I hate that he wasn't able to meet his namesake, but I tell him stories about her all the time. And you, too. When he's a little older I'm sure he'll love to meet you." She gave Nancy a smile that wobbled a little, then sniffled.

"Well, listen to me. Always an emotional wreck." Steven came over to her and wrapped his arm around her waist, and Bess leaned against him for a moment. "And I wanted tonight to be perfect. So I made chili and cornbread and a key lime pie for dessert, and I hope that sounds good. I have some spinach lasagna left over from last night, too, if anyone feels like being vegetarian..."

"Chili sounds fine," Nancy said, and she was surprised at the rusty quality of her voice. She had known this would probably be an emotional reunion at the very least, but she had been prepared for an ambush. That heightened awareness was still fizzing under her skin. "Thank you. I'm—Thank you for letting me meet you."

Bess shook her head, then reached over and patted Nancy's shoulder as Steven headed toward the kitchen. "Sweetie, you—Thank _you_ for coming to see me. I've missed you so much."

Ned murmured some comment about helping Steven in the kitchen; Nancy's heart skipped a beat when he left the two of them alone, but he was just in the next room, and maybe he had wanted to give them some privacy. "I thought you might be mad at me," she whispered. "I feel like what happened to George was my fault."

Bess's already-bright blue eyes became a little more brilliant with her tears. "She wanted to be there for you, to help you," Bess said, and her voice was trembling just a little. "If it hadn't been her, it would have been me. I hate that she's gone, and I... well, it's been hard. But I don't blame you, Nan. I don't. What you were doing was important."

Nancy felt miserable as her friend wrapped her in a firm hug, but she didn't have the heart to contradict her. From what she knew, the program and what she and George had been doing as a part of it—well, maybe it had been important, but not _good_ in any sense of the word. The cost had just been too high.

Bess patted her back as she pulled away from the hug, looking up into Nancy's eyes. "I'll get it after dinner, okay?"

Nancy nodded without thinking about it, but she didn't know what Bess was talking about. Her voice had dropped to something near a whisper, but it hadn't seemed like a secret.

Maybe it had been like this, with them—but no. That didn't jibe with what Nancy remembered. She associated Bess with being open and honest and compassionate. Then again, that was the version of Bess that Nancy had known a long, long time ago.

Dinner was good. Conversation started a little stilted, but Bess was bright and witty, and told Steven and Ned several stories about her and Nancy's childhood, ones that made Nancy laugh even while her heart hurt. It had been _her_. She had been whole and real and complete, she had had friends who loved her and wanted to support her, and she had given it all up. It filled her with sadness and yearning to hear Bess talk about it so easily. She wanted to spend a week with Bess, asking her everything she remembered. She wanted to find the other relatives Ned had told her about, and ask them everything. Maybe some part of who she had been could be redeemed. Maybe the past wouldn't bring her only pain.

And Bess and Steven included Ned as though the two of them were a couple, and that left Nancy's throat thick with tears, too. It was the closest she had felt to belonging in a long time, what she had found with him. She had been on the outside looking in for so long.

She hated that a part of her was waiting for an authoritative pounding of a fist on the front door, an unfamiliar rustling or creaking somewhere in the house, the intrusion of the life she had tried to leave behind. Everything good ended in pain and regret. George had been her friend, her best friend other than Bess, and Nancy would never be able to forgive herself if she somehow hurt Bess too.

Ned answered all the questions Bess and Steven directed toward him politely and honestly, but he spent more of his time asking them questions and listening to their answers. He had never liked to talk about himself—and she loved seeing him around other people, because he was still himself, the guy she had come to know over the past week. There was no artifice with him. Then he and Steven started talking about the Cubs, and Ned seemed to be relieved to talk about something neutral that would let him reveal little about himself.

She loved him. Oh, how she loved him.

After generous slices of key lime pie, and the offer of coffee—Nancy was already feeling tired, but she couldn't relax, not until she and Ned were back at the cabin and she was sure they were safe—Bess gestured for Nancy to follow her into the master bedroom. She closed the door behind them.

"Sit down. I just... I haven't told Steven. I thought it'd be better that way."

Nancy tried to keep her expression neutral as she watched Bess open the closet door and take out a board game. Tucked inside the folded game board were two items: a postcard bearing the glossy image of a bright blue ocean and palm trees on one side, and a loose sheet of paper.

"I know that I was supposed to pass this along to Frank and Joe," Bess said as she sat down beside Nancy, looking at the postcard she held. "But I just couldn't make myself do it. I didn't really believe you were gone. And doing that—well, it felt like it would make it true, I guess." Bess gave her a crooked smile. "And I think a part of me would have wanted to go with them, and I... I can't do that now. Not with Steven and our little boy at home waiting for me. G-George knew that, a long time ago." Bess sniffled. "Anyway. Here it is."

The postcard had been filled out in Nancy's handwriting; she recognized it. She also recognized the string of characters in the message area as a code, one she would be able to decipher fairly easily. She didn't remember anyone specifically named Frank or Joe, though.

"And this... I've kept it safe, just like you asked. The charity thing... well, I was going to. I guess I was. I don't know." Bess sighed.

"Charity?"

Bess nodded a few times, slowly. "Ned told me you—that you couldn't remember everything," she murmured. "While you were gone, all the money you earned, I put into this account for you. You... well, I would have said you were paranoid, but I guess you weren't."

"The money," Nancy whispered.

"Yeah. And you said that if you didn't come back, to donate it to charity."

Nancy smoothed a hand over her hair. Ned—she had been ashamed to accept his help. Now she could pay him back, she hoped. "How much," she murmured.

"Well, I know the account gets interest, and I haven't checked the balance for a while—the money stopped coming in, after..."

When Bess finally told her the amount, Nancy's mouth dropped open slightly. She could do far, far more than pay him back for what he had bought her; she could pay him back for saving her life, and more.

Bess patted her hand. "You and Ned are welcome to stay here tonight," she said. "He really seems like a good guy. When he told me that you were gone, I just didn't want to believe him. But I can tell he cares about you."

Nancy smiled. "And I'm glad," she murmured, and cleared her throat. "That you have a guy like Steven. He seems really nice."

Bess gave her another tentative smile. "Please tell me you'll stay, this time," she murmured, searching Nancy's eyes. "I don't want to lose you again. This is barely anything; we need time... and I've missed you so much."

The tears that had been gathering and aching in Nancy's throat all night rose to her eyes. "I've missed you too," she murmured, and it wasn't a lie. She had felt the absence of love and friendship in her life like a missing limb. "Thank you. For—for everything. And I—I do. Want to get to know each other again. And meet your little boy."

"He'll be here in the morning, if you can stay. If you want to stay. I know all this—is a lot." She smiled at Nancy.

"It is," Nancy admitted. She looked down at the postcard. It was still hard to really wrap her mind around what Bess had just told her. She had been afraid to tell Ned how scared she was, that she wouldn't be able to support herself, that she would depend on him far too much, but she—she would be all right. She could have her own place, a car that wasn't perpetually on the verge of breaking, comfortable clothes.

Maybe she could. She still wasn't entirely convinced that they had seen the last of people from the program. She just didn't know what was taking them so long. Maybe they were only watching and waiting—to find out where the money had been hidden, to find out if she discovered anything else about her past, anything that would make her dangerous to them.

Like the postcard in her hands.

"Have you deciphered this?"

Bess shook her head. "I kind of wanted to, but I was afraid to, too."

"And—Frank and Joe?" She shrugged a little, raising her eyebrows.

"Old friends. Emphasis on 'old.'" Bess smiled. "I mean long time. When we were younger I went boy-crazy and you never did, but I always kinda thought you'd end up with him. Frank, I mean." Bess shrugged. "He and his brother Joe, I think they're spies now, and I haven't seen them in ages. I only knew them because they liked to hang out with you. And I have to say... now that I've seen you and Ned together, I'm really glad nothing happened with Frank and you. Even though—maybe that would've kept you around." Bess crossed her arms, her right hand squeezing her left elbow. "There's no use, though. We can't change what's happened. And you're back."

Nancy nodded slowly. "So you didn't think I was dead. Ned did."

"I know. I could see it in his face. He was devastated. So was I." Bess shook her head. "But no. Maybe I would have thought that either way, but it—it just would have been so _unfair_. I knew you'd be back. I always knew."

Nancy's smile was brief. "How?"

"It was never supposed to be forever."

"How do you know?"

Bess shrugged. "The money," she said. "If a part of you hadn't thought you'd come home, I would have given it to a charity every month. It's not like your dad..." Bess glanced down. "Well. Half of his estate would have gone to you, but you'd been pronounced dead. I think everything went to his sister, your Aunt Eloise. And if you want to find out more, to fill in some of those gaps, I think she could help. I can too."

Nancy nodded. She had come back; she had _meant_ to come back. To what? As what? A returning hero? A soldier becoming a civilian again?

Bess could tell her about who she had been; her aunt might be able to tell her about her heritage, her family. But no one yet had been able to give her any insight into who she had been when she was seventeen, and why she had made the choice she had. Ned had insisted that she had been too young. Thanks to all the stories Bess had told over dinner, Nancy understood that her old friend thought she was wonderful.

It just didn't make sense.

The postcard was in her own handwriting.

Ned had told her that she had a choice: she could look at her past and choose how much of it to take with her, where and when to close the door and work on rebuilding her life _now_ instead of focusing on what had been. But a part of her was convinced that this, this mystery, would be her undoing, that she couldn't just leave it behind, that it would snap her back like a rubber band and keep her inside its orbit. If she wanted to change, then she needed to understand _what_ she was changing.

Once upon a time, only a few weeks ago, it had all been a blank slate. Ned had called it digging out a splinter before it could fester and infect her, but this felt more insidious. To really stop it from hurting her, she needed to make sure it was all gone. That not a single fragment was left, of the person who had done so many terrible things.

The threat could always come back. And she could take the pill that would close the door on it forever, and put it behind her. Maybe then Ned would be out of danger. She didn't care what they did to her, but she would lose her mind if that choice hurt one more person, especially Ned.

They made their apologies to Bess and Steven, and thanked them profusely for the meal. Then Nancy slid into the passenger seat of Ned's car, the sheet of paper bearing her bank account information and the postcard in her pocket.

"So," Ned said, once he had cranked the car and they were waiting for the interior to warm up. "That went well, I thought."

"Yeah," she murmured. "I'm glad nothing happened. Nothing bad, I mean."

Ned chuckled. "Yeah. And Bess's husband seems like a nice guy. Did you two have a good talk?"

Nancy nodded. She had debated keeping the postcard from Ned, but she was too impatient to look at it, and she wanted to know what he thought. She pulled it out and turned on the interior dome light with his permission, scrutinizing the handwritten code.

It didn't take long to decipher, but she had written it, once upon a time; she supposed it made sense. A set of coordinates followed by an identifying string, with a single line underneath.

_Come find me here if I'm gone._

A shiver went down her spine. That version of her _was_ gone, and as much as she wanted to understand, she was also afraid of what she might find there.

"What's that?"

She took a deep breath. "Maybe a mistake," she murmured. "Maybe the last piece of it. And I... I think I need to know, even if I don't like what I find. These coordinates are in Germany, I think. I need to go there." She glanced over at him. "And I want you to come with me."

"What?"

"I wrote this postcard. It's in my handwriting. The coordinates are in code. I think I might find some answers there."

"Germany."

"Yeah." She realized, and touched his hand. "I'll—I'll buy your ticket. I'll pay for all of it. All the money I earned, Bess had been keeping it for me. I'll pay you back for everything you gave me."

"It's—Those were gifts," he told her. "Not... you don't need to pay me back. We're friends."

Friends who touched each other while they were naked. Friends who wanted more than just friendship.

"Okay," she murmured. "But please come with me."

He glanced over at her. "Let me think."

She looked down at the postcard again, tracing the edges of it, looking at the glossy picture on the other side. Maybe it was a trap, but she wanted it over with and done. For them to know who they were messing with, and why they needed to stop.

The black beauties. She was terrified that if she left Ned behind, she would return to find him gone; she was just as afraid that taking him with her would cost his life. But there was a way around it.

_Is this how I felt after we met? That he would be safer without me, that they would leave him alone if they had me? I have so much to lose—Bess and her husband and her little boy, Ned, my aunt, they could threaten any of them and hurt me... and they would._

They would. She knew that. They would, if they thought it would get them what they wanted. Whatever she would find at those coordinates, maybe that was what they were waiting for. And she might just lead them straight to it.

_Another pill._

It came to her: the drone of large engines, metal rattling against metal, and those sweet dark eyes. Another pill. He had hated everything about what they were doing, but he had been by her side.

Nancy blinked and that nebulous impression faded to nothing. She had been terrified, but the terror had been locked behind something solid that kept it at bay until she could deal with it. She had been aware of it, but it had been under control.

And he had been part of it. He had been part of the reason she could do what she needed to do.

He was quiet all the way back to the cabin, to the point that although her chest felt thick and tight with anxiety, she was considering how she would handle it if she left Ned behind. Maybe if he stayed near Bess and her family, he could protect them or flee with them if something went wrong. But he might not know, not until he woke to find the muzzle of a gun in his face. She had a fleeting memory—safe houses, protocols—but all that she remembered belonged to the enemy now, and he was one of the only people she trusted. And he would be defenseless.

She needed something that could hold them at bay. She needed blackmail or leverage, and she wasn't sure where she could find it. But if it was all that could keep him safe...

He parked the car, turning off the engine. From habit she scrutinized the windows for any lights they hadn't left on, or a darkness where she expected the glow of a lamp, and she realized that _she hadn't been that way,_ not recently. It was like a bad habit that had come back with a vengeance.

"Show it to me, please."

His voice was quiet, almost resigned. She passed him the postcard, looking at his face. He had been a part of the program, too; it was easy for her to forget that. She didn't want him to be poisoned. She didn't want this to touch him.

"The postmark is three years old," he commented. "About the time we first met."

Nancy swallowed. "Yeah."

"And you have no idea what these coordinates indicate or what's waiting for us. Just a hunch?"

"Something like that," she admitted. "If we—If I don't go, I'll always wonder. I want to get this _done_ , Ned. I don't want it hanging over either of us. And I... I need you with me. At least if we're together, I'll know you're safe. I'm afraid that if I leave you here, I'll never see you again."

He reached for her hand and held it. "I've already lost you once," he told her. "I have no intention of ever losing you again. If you do this, and I can't come with you, for whatever reason, I'll be here when you get back. I promise you that. I... I'll have to check and see if I can take the time off work, if we're going to be gone."

"Oh." Nancy glanced down. "I—I'm sorry. I guess I was just so used to you being with me that I didn't even think about that. And after the big deal I made about needing a job... God, I'm an idiot."

Ned shook his head, and touched her cheek, turning her face gently toward his. "Your life was divided into goal and achievement," he remarked. "I can understand that it's strange to consider anything else. But I'll call tomorrow, okay? I don't want to let you go by yourself, but I don't know who else could possibly go with you."

"Not Hank." She muttered it, looking down. "I'm sorry. I just..."

"I know." He gave her hand another gentle squeeze. "Come on, let's go inside. It's getting cold in here."

He had told her that she didn't need to be hurting and desperate for him to make love to her. They were both tired, and she knew she wasn't seductive or alluring, but all she had known with him _was_ desperation. Though she finally was beginning to feel that she was near the end of it, she was both impatient and afraid to find out what would happen then. She didn't know if the nightmares would stay with her forever, but she knew she would deserve it if they did. She didn't know if she would always share Ned's bed, but she hoped so. She couldn't imagine waking up from another of her nightmares to find herself alone, miserable, hurting and sure that the only way to get through it was to hurt herself.

"You wanted to see your parents tomorrow." She mentioned it when she was pulling a threadbare t-shirt over her head, and then she began to take her bra off under her shirt. When she realized what she was doing, her fingers stumbled and slowed. Some things she didn't quite remember were automatic; some vanished to mist as soon as she tried to bring them in focus.

"For lunch, before we head back. You—you're welcome to come." The note of uncertainty in his voice made her smile. He always seemed so confident and assured. "I just don't want it to be uncomfortable for you."

"Well, I'm sure tonight wasn't too comfortable for _you_ ," she pointed out, diving under the covers. "Thank you, again, for agreeing to bring me here and arrange all this. I guess I really should thank your parents in person for letting us stay here, too."

"That's..." Ned sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair. Nancy's teeth were chattering; she had dressed so lightly because she knew that cuddling against Ned would warm her almost immediately. He noticed and pulled the covers back, sliding into the bed in his boxers, and he reached for her. She nestled her head against his shoulder, her arm draped across his bare chest.

"That's part of the problem. If I introduce you, they'll think..."

She didn't realize right away; once she did, she blushed. "Well, if we go to Europe together, that probably wouldn't help," she pointed out. "You could just introduce me as your friend."

He reached up and stroked her hair a few times. "I'm not that good an actor," he murmured, finally. "My mom... I think she's been dying for me to settle down practically since I graduated college. It would be stressful under the best circumstance. I don't want you stressed."

"And it would be stressful for you, too," she said. "For your parents to think we're together that way."

He turned onto his side so he could look into her face, and cupped her cheek. "I want it to be perfect," he murmured. "I'm sorry. I'm not ashamed of this, but I want the time to be right. And, after... the time will be right."

She blinked, still searching his eyes. "The pill. The final one. After that."

He swallowed. "If we track down this lead, and whatever's there is too important to them... then I think... as much as I hate it, I think we might need to consider... the other pills he gave us."

Tears rose in her eyes. "We would have to go through this all over again," she whispered, and then she tightened her arm around him and buried her face against his chest. "What if I forget again? I can't, I can't..."

He kissed the crown of her head. "I... Nan, if you forget? I can help you again. But if you die..."

His voice had become husky, and though her heart was fluttering with anxiety, hearing it reflected in him only made it worse. She didn't trust her own instincts, and if she had to go alone, she didn't know what she would do. One false move, and they really would be separated, for good this time.

He had helped her through so much, but if she woke in the morning and all those memories were gone, if she had to rebuild their relationship and the trust she had in him all over again... she didn't know if she could survive that. Enduring it for a year and a half had been as close to hell as she could imagine. Going through another day of it, feeling lost and alone and broken, unaware that he truly existed outside a fragment of a dream...

When his lips found hers, for the first time she felt that he was drawing comfort from her, just as she drew comfort from him. She threaded her fingers through his hair and returned his kiss, meeting every stroke of his tongue, parting her legs willingly when he slid his knee between. He was so warm, and he wasn't taking the time to be delicate and sure and restrained, not tonight. His weight pressed her against the mattress and his hips rested between her parted thighs, and she shivered at the thrill of it, and the anticipation.

She had let him direct her and control what they did, when they were together; she had felt passive, and greedy. She hadn't been able to return the favor. When he caressed and kissed her skin, she wasn't really able to do the same to him. Kissing him like this, feeling him against her like this—she was able to stroke her tongue against his, to hold him close and trace her fingertips and her nails against his back, to arch under him, to move with him. He stroked his hips between hers, rubbing his hardness against her, and she gasped and moaned in response.

"I—God," Ned gasped, and she shuddered at the loss when he moved back to look into her eyes. His hair was mussed from her fingers dragging through it, his lips were parted, and his dark eyes were almost pained. He hung his head, perched above her with his strong, muscular arms straining, and Nancy took a breath and reached up to caress his cheek. His hips were out of contact with her. She felt cold, and she wanted him.

"Please," she whispered, and gently rubbed her inner thigh against his hip, aching with need. "Please don't stop."

He searched her eyes for a moment, then slowly lowered himself to her again. His lips brushed hers, and she slid her leg around him, then the other.

"Oh, Nan... you don't know what you do to me," he murmured against her lips. "God..."

"Show me," she whispered.

He moved back again, although her legs were still wrapped around him, and she saw both longing and fear in his eyes—but she didn't know if she only saw her own turmoil reflected there. "I love you," he whispered. "That's all I can show you. For the rest of my life."

And suddenly she felt tears pricking in her eyes, thick at the back of her throat, at the hushed vow. "I love you too," she whispered. "For the rest of my life."

If he still felt reluctant, he didn't show it. She only saw need and love in him. He reached for the band of his boxers and she stripped off her shirt, taking a breath before she took off her panties too. She wasn't cold at all, not after being in contact with him.

He moved onto his back, pulling the covers up over her shoulders when she cuddled against him. Her heart was beating so hard that she could feel it thudding through her. Then he stroked her knee a few times, and guided her to straddle his hips.

She couldn't help gasping when she moved over him, when she pressed the join of her open thighs against his hips. That hardness she had cautiously explored with her fingers the night before pressed against her sex, and she watched his face, trying to figure out if what she was doing was hurting him.

He cupped her hips and stroked her skin. "Now you can move," he murmured, and her lashes fluttered down as she rubbed the slick flesh between her legs against his sex, once he had first began to guide her.

"Oh," she moaned, and bowed her head. "Oh, Ned..."

"Yeah," he murmured, shifting the angle of his hips. He stroked her hair, his other hand sliding between them.

She gasped loudly when he touched her between her legs, where he had caressed and kissed her the night before. She nuzzled against him, all her attention focused on how his caress made her feel. Her inner flesh—it was so strange, to touch him this way, to be with him this way, to be in control, but it felt right too. She wanted to feel that incredible tension again, and the pleasure...

Her nuzzling made her lips brush against his, and he kissed her, and she shifted the angle of her hips. With every stroke against him, she trembled. That tension was beginning to coil tighter in her, but she wanted more. She just didn't know what, or how to say it.

She wanted to join with him. She wanted to show him the same pleasure that he had shown her. She wanted them to feel it together, if that was possible.

A low hum came from her when he broke the kiss, her hips still stroking insistently against his, his thumb still working against that tender place. "More," she moaned, and on her next stroke, only the tips of her firm nipples brushed against his warm chest, and that made her shiver with delight. " _Ned_..."

"Baby..."

She didn't know what more there was, that they could feel together. She didn't want him to do what he had done the previous nights, and separate himself from her, giving to her instead of being with her. As amazing as it had felt, he needed the comfort of being with her just as much as she needed him. At least, she wanted to believe it.

When he moved to roll her onto her back, then nuzzled against her breasts, she shook her head. "No," she moaned, although she arched and shivered with delight when he briefly closed his lips around one nipple. "Stay with me... I want to feel it with you..."

"We will," he murmured, and kissed her breastbone. "I need you so wet for me, sweetheart. Just trust me."

He licked her nipple, and she sighed, tipping her head back. It felt so good, so incredibly good, especially when he suckled against each one, fondling the other as he did. He brushed feather-light kisses over her breasts, and the gentle strokes of his fingertips against her, her hips, her sides, her belly... even though his fingers weren't touching her between her thighs, soon she was flushed and all her attention was centered entirely on him and what he was doing to her. She hated that, but she couldn't stop it. She didn't want to lose the thread of the tension he was drawing tight inside her.

Then he moved over her again, trailing kisses up her neck, and his lips found hers. She kissed him back immediately, hard and desperate, opening her legs to him. She had loved feeling him press against her, and when his hips came in contact with hers, she shivered with longing. As much as she wanted to be an active participant, giving and receiving, when he was resting against her she couldn't _think_. She didn't know what he would want, what she should do, and she just responded to his touch, moving against and with him, arching her back and tilting the angle of her hips, anticipating something that she hoped would feel like his fingers had inside her.

And he touched her there, very gently, and she nipped at him. His lips turned up, briefly, and he kissed her earlobe. "Like that?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "Yes."

He groaned when he touched her low between her legs, where she was throbbing and tender. "Yes," she whispered again, cupping his cheek, and she met his hooded, dark-eyed gaze when he moved over her. "Please..."

He blinked, his fingertip gently probing against her, and she bent her knees a little more, encouraging him. "You don't know," he whispered.

"Yes I do," she said, and her voice was like a pleading moan. "Please show me. Please be with me."

He kissed her then, once, hard, and then his lips brushed against her cheek and she drew a breath as he touched her again. Then she realized what he was doing, and she flushed. The tip of his erection was brushing between her legs.

_We will be joined._

It was impossible and it was terrifying and it was exciting, and it was _right_. She wanted it. She wanted it so much, and his next kiss was so sweet and tender that it brought tears to her eyes. She—that other version of her, the one she both envied and feared. That version of her had never had him like this, and she would make it _right_ this time. She wouldn't let him go, this time.

And then he was inside her, and she wrapped her arms around him, fighting her anxiety and trusting him not to hurt her. "I love you," he whispered, and his breath was warm against her skin. "I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered, and her lips parted as he moved deeper. She tensed, and tried to make herself relax. "Mmm..."

"It's okay. I know it must... it must be strange for you. I don't want to hurt you..."

"No," she whispered. "It doesn't hurt... _oh_..."

She had been stroking his spine, her fingers through his hair, but when he moved deeper inside her, she could only feel. She wanted it; oh, she tried to keep herself from tensing, from giving in to her fear. She wanted to move with him, instead of just focusing on and processing what he was doing to her. Surely he wouldn't go any further...

And then he pushed inside her, so deep, until his hips were flush against hers. She drew a shallow breath, her fingers tensing and her nails dragging against his skin. He filled her; he made a place for himself inside her and fit himself there, and she arched her spine a little as he settled on top of her. His weight pinned her down, and she truly was powerless.

He released a sound that was halfway between a moan and a sigh, and she knew that he was enjoying this. Then he pulled back—and moved inside her again.

She had no choice but to give herself over to it, and when she let go, the pleasure was slow and incredible. His lips brushed hers and then he kissed her deeply, slowly, his tongue in her mouth. And he was inside her.

She had thought it was love, she had called it love, and with him it was. For her, it was indescribable. She had never imagined it could be like this. She clung to him, and on his next thrust she savored the sensation instead of fearing it and tensing against it.

"Ned..."

Immediately he stopped moving, and looked into her face. "Do I need to stop? Slow down? God..."

She touched his cheek again, and shook her head. "Can you just... stay inside me?"

"Like this?"

He pushed forward again, and her eyes rolled back a little when he was completely inside her. She couldn't seem to catch her breath. "Yes," she whimpered.

"You... are you okay?"

She nodded, and looked into his eyes. "I just don't want it to stop," she whispered.

He smiled and gently brushed a loose hair from her cheek. "Me either," he whispered.

"It feels good to you to move?"

He nodded. "Let me try something," he murmured. "Tell me if you don't like it, okay?"

She nodded slowly. Where he was pressed inside her, she felt tender and achingly _aware_ of him. He kissed her, then slid out of her and licked his thumb.

She cried out when he rubbed the ball of his thumb against the place he had teased and licked the night before, at the same time that he moved inside her again. He nuzzled against her cheek and jaw and she was overwhelmed, and her every breath was a gasp or a sob.

"Yes," he whispered. "Just like that, baby, just relax..."

But she couldn't relax. She strained, arching and rocking against him, and he was kissing her when a cry caught in her throat. She wrapped her legs around him again, and at the deepest point of each thrust she was overcome with a pleasure so intense it was almost pain. To be joined. This was what it meant to be joined.

He pulled back, breathless, and she looked into his handsome face and dark eyes, and knew that he was irrevocably a part of her now, that he had been ever since they had met. Even if she hadn't remembered him, her heart had.

And this... this had all been inside her, this need, this love, and she had found its answer in him. He was afraid of hurting her, of taking steps before she was ready, but she needed his love.

She couldn't lose him.

_I can help you recover your memories, but if you're killed..._

She would feel safer with him by her side. The price she might have to pay for that false security was his life.

She was already on the point of tears, and at that thought her sight blurred with them. It was a clue she had left for herself, a letter from hell, and she didn't know if she had the strength to open it—or the strength to resist the lure of it.

And he was devoted to her. He _wanted_ her, and no one else had in so, so long. No one had wanted her to be a part of their lives. She had only hurt people.

He moved deeply inside her and then grasped her hips, rolling onto his back. She cried out as she slid her knees apart, pressing herself against him, a shudder traveling up her spine as he rubbed his thumb against her. "Oh my _God_ ," she sobbed, mimicking the same motions, mounting him over and over. She understood now why it had felt so good to him, but at the deepest point, when he was fully inside her, she still trembled with satisfaction and need.

"Take it as slow or as fast as you want," Ned gasped. "Whatever feels good to you..."

She forced herself to take a breath and slow down, making her movements more deliberate, and on her next descent she changed the angle of her hips. His thumb was still rubbing against her, and then he cupped her breast, stroking his other thumb against her nipple.

She cried out again, her inner flesh clenching against him. "Oh my God," she sobbed. "Ned oh my God oh my _God_..."

"Yeah," he groaned. "Feels so good..."

She rode him until she pushed herself up, tipping her head back, her hair tumbling down. She slid down, enfolding him, so he was so deep inside her, and she felt Ned tense under her. Her heart was pounding and she was breathless, senseless at the bliss of it, as Ned gasped underneath her. His hips jolted once, and then he began to relax. She collapsed to him, closing her eyes as she nestled against his shoulder, as he wrapped his arms around her.

"I love you."

"Mmm. I love you," she whispered. She felt exhausted, just as she had for the past two nights, and it was a relief, although they were still joined. She wondered if men and women slept this way. Before, she had been so very aware of him inside her. Now, he didn't seem to be hard anymore. And she didn't think she could move, not easily.

"I love you," he sighed, shifting under her. "Oh my God, I love you, baby..."

She pressed a gentle slow kiss against his chest. "Do I need to move?"

"No. Shh." He brushed his hand over her hair. "Right here. You can stay right here, honey."

"Mmm." Slowly she straightened her legs, but that was all. She stayed cuddled against his chest until her back was chilly, and then they slowly parted, just to embrace again after they cleaned up. He gently wiped her thighs for her, and she felt a little sore between her legs. But when she relaxed against him again, she just felt satisfied.

_I would kill for this._

The thought made her eyes open in the dark, her lashes brushing his chest.

_I would kill to keep him safe. I would hurt those who tried to hurt him._

Her arm tightened around him.

She hadn't understood, but she had never had _this_ before, not until recently. She could remember now that she had felt that way about George too, and the other members of her team. She had been intensely loyal. She was again, now that she had someone worthy of it.

Maybe, when she had been seventeen... maybe her choice had been the lesser of two evils. But whatever the other choice was, it had to have been terrible. And she needed to know.

More than that, though, she needed to keep him safe.

She closed her eyes and nestled against him. If she could just make sure he stayed here, off the radar and out of sight...

Maybe he felt the same way about her.

_Stay right here._

_Give me this,_ she thought, and tears pricked in her eyes. _Give me this and I will stay with you forever._


End file.
